Christmas Run

Maybe one of the best gifts of the day was waking up a little later than usual, making lattes with my sister, and heading out for a Christmas morning run. Sunny, windy, cold but not freezing. A beautiful morning for a run, and even though I didn't feel like I had a lot of energy for pounding the pavement, we cranked out six miles before heading home to get ready for the rest of the day.

Running is truly a gift. It gives me health, strength, and a sense of fitness. It gives me time to think and reflect, space to breathe, and room to move. It gives me energy and tranquility and well-being both physical and mental. And all it asks of me is that I occasionally get out of bed while it's still dark out and dress like I'm heading into an Arctic zone...

Running on Christmas morning with my sister gives me a chance to reflect on where the year has taken me physically, spiritually, and emotionally. I discovered trail running and quickly got hooked. I finally found a church that I like and feel like I have a spiritual home. I ran several races with friends and met new people at church as I became involved with the pastoral council and spiritual direction. It is no coincidence that for the first time in five years (since I returned from living abroad) I feel like I have found community. I'm part of something.

There is so much that I question - about life, about faith, about running. My uncertainties used to stress me out, and sometimes they still do, but as I continue on my faith journey, and as I continue embarking on new adventures in running, I realize that no one has all the answers. No one has done it all and seen it all. The gift and the beauty in this process of discovery is that there is always something more to uncover and experience, and even the moments of confusion and struggle are ultimately periods of growth. What a gift.

Costa Rica - Christine, Ben, Jess, and Alyssa's Great Vacation Adventure

Monday, 15 December 2008

Left Boston at 3 a.m., parked at Logan, and proceeded to wait in the longest line ever, with each passenger checking at least five refrigerator-sized suitcases and carrying on several purses, backpacks, laptops, cosmetic cases, and small, wailing children.

After a stopover in Miami we finally arrived in San Jose and were greeted by our rental car agency. Processing and signing the papers took about as long as writing a novel, but at last we got the keys to our 4x4, loaded our backpacks into the trunk, and hit the road. By “hit the road”, I mean “drove straight to our hotel in a dark and slightly questionable neighborhood, checked in, and passed out.”

Tuesday, 16 December 2008

Either because of the time change or vacation-induced excitement, Christine and I were both up long before 7 a.m. and dressed for a run soon after. The sky was bright, clear, and blue. We tried to head away from the main drag but somehow kept finding ourselves deeper and deeper within the highly-trafficked rush-hour crush of people, cars, and bicycles. We walked and talked, catching up on recent weeks, work, and life in general. When we were finally able to run for a few blocks, we broke out into a jog that earned us more than a few stares and buenos dias’.

San Jose seemed a little grungy and not particularly charming - lots of potholes, rubbish, and buildings that look as if they were made out of matchboxes and scotch tape. We enjoyed people-watching and peeking into store fronts, but the gritty, torn up sidewalks were barely a match even for trail shoes, and the car exhaust seemed to stick to my skin. But after many hours of travel, even a grimy run felt good; just getting out in the sunshine and working up a sweat felt refreshing.

We ate breakfast on the terrace by the hotel pool and after fueling up on cafe con leche, plantains, fruit, and beans and rice we hit the road for Lake Arenal and the thermal baths that awaited. After a day of driving and a little delayed jet-lag, we soaked away our aches in the Ecotermales and slept like corpses at our volcano-side lodge.

Wednesday, 17 December 2008

We tried to run, but even our best efforts were no match for the sidewalk-less road where cars, trucks, buses, and mopeds threatened to send us flying into a roadside ditch. After a few minutes of hoping we'd somehow stumble across a sidewalk or run-able side road, we abandoned the mission in favor of walking back to the lodge for breakfast. Though I was really hoping to start the day with a few miles on the roads, coffee, yoga, and a little meditation by the pool were not a bad second choice. As I've been told, sometimes the best run is the one you don't take.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday...

I could write more about the zipline through the rainforest, the hot springs, the beach, or the Christmas procession that went on for four hours. I could write about the cafe con leche strong and sweet enough to lull me into a gently caffeinated state of bliss each morning; the fresh papaya, guanabana, maracuya, and bananas that tasted like they were just picked moments ago, and the caramelly, sweet dulce de leche I ate straight from the package, much to the amusement and disgust of my travel companions. I could write about the lush hills and mountains we drove through, the skinny cows and horses by the side of the road, and the kids - free of helmets and any cares in the world - skitting through the streets on mopeds that had to date back to the Reagan administration. I could write about the cheesy, lovey-dovey Latin ballads that seemed to blare from every speaker in the country; the warmth and friendliness of a people who seem to encounter pale, linguistically-challenged tourists on a daily basis and are only too happy to merrily point them in the right direction with a sunny smile; the hour we spent gleefully and curiously meandering the aisles of the grocery store, stocking up on local snacks for the car ride back to San Jose. I could write about spending an entire day in my bathing suit, reading by the pool, walking on the beach, having fruity drinks for lunch, and laughing with my sister and friends. I could write about any number of these things, and they might be interesting or even entertaining, but in the end, one can just as easily pick up a guide book and marvel at the pictures. One can just as easily experience their own Costa Rica, either from near or from a far. Because in the end, you do not take a trip. A trip takes you.

Tough Ten Mile Turkey Trot - Marlboro, MA

Maybe I'm the only one who thinks I'll enjoy a race based on the director's pre-race email message signed, "See ya on the backroads of Marlborough in God's blessing!" That, and the fact that the price of registration was 10 canned goods for the local food pantry...oh yeah, and it's the Sunday after Thanksgiving, so I have what we might diplomatically refer to as a "calorie surplus".

The past three days of holiday eating, celebrating and reunion-ing might have been partly responsible for making me sleep right through my alarm, so I was awakened at 7:20 when my friend from work buzzed at my door. Fortunately, my running clothes were laid out the night before (old habits die hard...or not at all), and because fashion takes a back seat to climate control, I look like a homeless urchin when I run anyhow. I threw on my clothes, put on a pot of coffee, and answered the door. We were ahead of schedule anyhow, so we had time for a little bit of chit-chat over toast and coffee. Then we hit the road for the drive out to Marlboro.

Once we arrived, I found my friend Diane and her cousin. Diane and I know each other from our last job, and she unabashedly refers to herself as “the 50 year old cheerleader”. She has more energy than most people half her age, and she churns out 8 - 10 milers like a walk around the block. Diane encouraged me to do this race (and many others), reminding me that it would be the first Sunday of Advent, and what better way to prepare for this season than by donating food to a community food pantry. Running 10 miles through hilly Marlboro was just the bonus...

This race was defintely what we might call "no frills", and that is perhaps one of the things I liked most about it. Our race numbers were handwritten sticky labels with our name, age, and hometown. "Registration" consisted of pinning on our labels and loading our canned goods onto the back of a pickup truck. The crowd was small, friendly, and relatively quiet; some volunteers headed out to staff waterstops, while others prepped plates of homemade coffee cake, doughnuts, caramel popcorn and cookies to be enjoyed post-race.

We shivered in the sunless morning, waiting for the race to begin. The race director led us to the start, reviewed the course, and offered a blessing and moment of silence for those who go hungry and those who serve our country. He shared with us that the food pantry to which our canned goods would be donated has already experienced a dramatic depletion of resources; we are indeed in difficult times, and it’s really a blessing in itself that we can go out and enjoy this run and the munchkins and hot cocoa that await us at the finish line. The national Anthem was sung (chokes me up every time) and off we went.

Marlboro is quiet and suburban. We ran through sleepy neighborhoods with firewood piled next to the houses and smoke curling out of the chimneys. My friend from work and Diane’s cousin were way ahead of us, and Diane and I settled into a comfortable pace. After a little chit chat, we drifted into silence, each running our own race and offering the other quiet support. I knew that as long as I could see Diane’s flourescent yellow jacket near me, I was doing okay. The course was hilly and, to be honest, unremarkable. We plodded along, mile by mile. Eventually I turned on my ipod and my faithful running buddies - Jimi Hendrix, George Michael, Herbie Hancock, and Erasure - kept me company. Mile 8 - 9.5 was a brutal hill that forced me to walk. Even a few gummi bears didn’t help much.

The timing of this race - right after Thanksgiving and on the first day of Advent - held a quiet serendipity. It felt like a meaningful time to reflect on the preceding days of giving thanks, and to look ahead to the coming weeks of waiting and preparation. I have always loved Thanksgiving because, despite its historical baggage, it seems like such a universal and simple concept. Giving thanks - what an idea! I am thankful for so many things I can barely begin to list them - my family and friends, my health, my job, my community, the food on my table, the clothes in my closet, the roof over my head, the car I drive, the warmth, happiness, and plentitude of the life I am so priveleged and blessed to live. I'm grateful for the friends I run with - they encourage me, make me laugh, and more often than not are willing to indulge in massive amounts of coffee with me after a race. Despite my occasional whining about aches, pains, and strains, I am grateful that I can run. It wasn't long ago that I couldn't, and I'm reminded every single day that my ability to run could just as quickly and easily disappear. Food, friends, warm clothes, health, freedom - running honors all of these gifts at once and feels like a celebration of these many blessings.

The solitude and grey skies of this race prompt a lot of contemplation on my part. Thinking about Advent, I meditate on what it means. In its simplest form, "advent" means "coming" or "arrival", and the season of Advent is a time of expectation, anticipation and preparation, as Christians prepare for the birth of Jesus. Thinking about these concepts and how they might relate to my own life, one word keeps coming back to me: patience. There is a distinct parallel between this season of anticipation and my own striving for patience. It is a challenge - anyone who knows me knows that patience is not my forte. I pray for it and try to cultivate it, but am continually given a run for my money. But just as Advent comes every year and gives us the chance to wait and experience that act of waiting and that feeling of waiting, so too does the opportunity for patience present itself to me over and over again. Just as Christians can experience the season of Advent as the season of anticipation and preparation, so too can I think of this as a time to be mindful and patient, to think about how and when my patience is tested, and to remind myself to just wait. Because just as Christmas will eventually and undoubtedly arrive, so will all that I am waiting for.

The last half-mile or so I ran with a woman who told me about her daughter, a fiesty 5-year old named Tory who suffered from “Failure to Thrive” since she was just a few months old. As she recounted her young daughter’s treatments and medical interventions, I could barely imagine enduring so much at such a young age, and I was reminded once more what a blessing it is to get up and run ten miles. Despite my aching hamstrings, this made the last half-mile pass pretty quickly, and before I knew it we were running up a final hill and into the parking lot where we started. We turned in our stickers and claimed numbered popsicle sticks indicating what place we finished. I found Diane and my friend from work (who placed third in the women’s group!) and we enjoyed some hot cocoa and popcorn before saying our goodbyes. It was freezing cold, and as we got in the car a bit of snow began to fall. After a quick stop at Dunkin’ Donuts we were en route to Boston, tired and happy, and feeling very blessed by this run.

Hurley Rail Trail, Hudson River Valley, NY

I drove out to Rhinebeck, NY yesterday afternoon to hang out with my sister Christine, plan our upcoming trip to Costa Rica, and make a long-overdue trip to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, NY. The meal at the CIA was sublime...hard to even describe. Suffice it to say, it definitely beat the leftovers I had at home on Friday night...

The drive to my sister's was peaceful and gave me a chance to run through an ever-growing list of things on my mind, listen to some good music, and make the most of a few quiet hours of driving through hills and valleys and watching the sun set.

I packed light for this trip but made sure to throw all my cold weather running gear into my overnight bag. As on my previous visit back in August, Christine and I planned to start Sunday morning with a run on the Town of Hurley Rail Trail, a paved and re-purposed segment of the Hudson Valley Railway.

After the three hour drive and the meal at the CIA, I slept like the dead in the comfy little guest room and awoke to the sound of birds outside my window and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. There was also the vague and comforting smell of something baking...is it any wonder I like visiting my sister? After a few cups of coffee and the NY Times, we drove out to the rail trail, which is just over the Hudson River and about 20 minutes away from Rhinebeck.

We made a brief stop at Caffe Aurora in Poughkeepsie for espressos and some homemade Italian pastries. To be honest, I was still full from last night, but Aurora came so highly recommended by my friend whose family owns it that my sister and I had to share sfogliatelle (flaky pastry filled with sweetened ricotta) and mostacciaoli (chocolate-covered spice cookie). We lingered over our coffees for a little while, watching the after-church crowd filter in and listening to the old men chiaccherando in italiano while they waited for their wives to pick up cannolli. It reminded me so much of my two years in Italy that I almost had to fight back tears of nostalgia.

Fueled up on espresso and dolci, we drove to the Rail Trail parking lot, piled on our fleeces and gloves and hats and took off running. After last week’s 7.5 miles, and in preparation for next week’s 10, I figured 8 miles or so would be a comfy distance. Christine agreed and off we went. The sun was shining brilliantly and there was no wind. It was cold but not freezing, and I knew we’d warm up quickly.

After my usual concerns that I’m going to have to walk or drop dead, we settled into a comfortable cruising speed, admired the scenery, and chatted. The rail trail is pancake-flat, surrounded by rolling hills dotted with little white farmhouses and churches. We made our way along the paved portion of the path, with a residential neighborhood on our left and the highway on our right. Despite the occasional cars passing by, it was very peaceful. Before long we dipped into the woods, running on crunchy gravel, frozen dirt, and papery leaves. Surrounded by mature pines and rocks, we continued on, enjoying the fresh air and nature and greeting the occasional runner or walker who passed by.

I should mention that Christine is my oldest sister and she began running just one year ago at the age of 37. She was more surprised than anyone else by how much she liked it and how quickly she took to it. Since then, we’ve run two half marathons and a bunch of shorter races together. A month ago, Christine signed up to run the Boston Marathon, which has been a compelling enough reason for me to keep running despite the cold weather.

Because Christine went from college to grad school to vet school to residency, each in different states, she and I have not lived in the same state since I was 16. Not only have our paths of education and career been fairly different, but our paths in life have been dissimilar, too. Though we've always shared the bond of sisterhood, it sometimes felt like we lived in completely different worlds.

Christine has always been the quintessential ‘big sister’, looking out for me, providing rational advice, and letting me crash on her floor while she was getting her Ph.D. in California and I was doing community service. She can be the epitome of a scientist, balancing my emotionality (is that even a word?) with her level headed intellect and logic. As we’ve grown into adulthood and created lives for ourselves, our sisterhood has evolved into friendship. The fact that now - in all our glorious diversity - we share this hobby of running is something that brings me great happiness.

We continue on the trail talking about everything and nothing, enjoying the fresh air, crunching pinecones beneath our feet, planning our upcoming trip to Costa Rica and talking politics, religion, science, finances and life (nothing too heavy…). I felt tired when we started but am happily re-energized and warmed up, especially once we reach the turnaround point. I ask Christine if this is four miles and she responds devilishly, “welll….not really. I kind of tricked you…”. We turn around and keep running, and I don't push for an answer. Sometimes it's better to just not know.

We maintain a steady pace and conversation and the final miles fly by. It’s brilliantly sunny and just cold enough to be refreshing, not numbing. The rolling hills around us are tranquil and the path ahead is completely flat. Two hawks circle above us. Christine and I both turn on our ipods and sprint the last mile. By the time we return to the car, we have run 11 miles, not 8. Maybe surprisingly and maybe not, I’m more than okay with that.

What is spiritual?

As I continue on my life’s spiritual path, I keep talking to God, I keep praying. I keep asking for guidance and getting impatient when I don’t get it. I keep seeking answers and feeling bewildered when I can’t find them. I keep talking to God and straining to hear answers, and I’ve started thinking that it might be because I’m not listening, or that I don’t know what to listen for.

I’ve often thought about and commented that for me, running is not only a physical experience but a spiritual one. As I finished my warmup and headed up a hill to Newton Center this morning - a perfectly clear and cool fall morning - my mind began to wrap itself around the question, what is spiritual? I intended to run three miles, but the fact the I wound up doing 7.5 is probably an indicator of how intently I was pondering this question.

What is the spirit? What does it mean to be spiritual? Is it something simply beyond our physical world and beyond our sensual world, something that can be felt but hardly described? How do our spiritual and religious experiences intertwine, or perhaps diverge? Thinking about those questions, I realize I throw the term ‘ spiritual’ around quite frequently and freely, and though I think about it often, I have a hard time clearly and concisely defining it.

What is it about running that is spiritual to me? Is it the act of not only challenging my physical self but also my mental and emotional self? Is it because when I run, a certain space is created and it is in this space that I allow myself to fully experience some of my deepest emotions, contemplate some of life’s most mundane and most massive topics, and find some previously-elusive answers?

I find myself thinking so intently about this that I trip and go flying across someone’s front lawn. It makes me cringe and laugh at the same time, and I’m not so subtly reminded of the critical role of mindfullness in spiritual practice.

I think about occasions when I’ve felt what I could only describe as being spiritually moved - hiking Mt. Monadnock with a group of friends, working with a nun in the slums of Kingston, Jamaica, listening to a Jesuit priest speak about his experiences of nonviolent protest as a path to peace, or even sharing a good meal with my close friends in the warmth of my home. I’ve also felt a sense of being spiritually alive during more challenging times - at the funeral service for my teacher and mentor, during a particularly trying time at work, and when my car broke down on the Mass Pike. Perhaps it is these occasions that inspire, allow, or force me to stop and acknowledge or rely on the presence of God. Is spirituality simply the awareness of God or a higher power?

I continue my run, breathing in the clean air, feeling the autumn wind in my face, listening to birds and rustling branches and a few cars. I notice the shapes of brown and orange leaves crunching beneath my feet, the Boston skyline in the distance, and the houses and gardens along my route. Where is God in this moment? Perhaps, everywhere.

I run by BC and turn onto Lake Street, savoring my favorite part of a run in my neighborhood - a long, easy downhill. Physically, I feel renewed and strong. I’m happy to have had this time alone with my thoughts and my prayers and questions, and thought I haven’t found any answers, I wonder if that’s part of my answer right there: just questioning, thinking, and contemplating spirituality is a spiritual act in itself.

Busa Bushwhack Trail Race, Framingham, MA

Sunday, 2 November, 2008 - 5 miles

Sometimes a good run makes everything all right, or at least gives one the space - mental, physical and emotional - to sort it all out, think it over, and leave it behind among the branches, roots, and pine needles. As I ran today, I was so deeply reminded of this. Last week’s race put me to the test, and though I didn’t fail, I was firmly tested. And despite the satisfaction of simply finishing, I hurt. Today was my comeback - an enjoyable, much less hilly local trail run with a bunch of friends, a free registration, and the promise of huge amounts of Dunkin Donuts coffee afterwards.

So many things were rolling around in my mind, and I was eager to spend an hour in nature, letting it all float away. The beginning of the race frustrated me a little bit because the trail was narrow and backed up, people were pushing and passing without warning, and there seemed to be a lot of loud mouthy show off-y guys trying to one-up each other. If there’s one thing that bugs me at a run, it’s loud mouthy, show off-y guys trying to one up each other....

In any case, off we went. Once the bottleneck dissipated we made our way further into the woods, along a peaceful trail of gently rolling hills covered with pine needles and a few roots. Compared to last week’s gauntlet, it was a walk in the park. We splashed through a few mud puddles and scurried over a few rocks and roots, but all in all it was a gentle and forgiving course. I found my pace and my breath and my 'zone' and cruised along. It was challenging, but it felt good, and I felt good. Just breathing, just running, just being.

I kept a steady pace for the course and had a good time. Sometimes I ran with others near me, and we exchanged hellos. Other stretches of the run I was completely alone. I have to admit that today, especially knowing I’d get to hang out with my friends after the race, I was particularly grateful for those quiet, thoughtful, serene stretches of alone time. During those stretches, my mind wandered.

For some reason, in the last mile or so, I found myself thinking over the past few weeks. In the course of ten days, I had gone to two funeral services - one for a 100 year old great aunt, and one for a 65 year old former teacher, mentor, and friend. Both hit me profoundly, though for different reasons, and I’ve been surprised to find myself thinking about them almost daily. Not in a melancholy way, but perhaps with an acute sense of mortality, family, and purpose.

My 100 year old aunt I barely knew - she was one of my paternal grandfather's man, many siblings - but her passing reminded me that my family is aging. Our history is fading as the older folks pass away and the younger generation becomes more and more removed from where we came from.

I also thought about Linda, one of my teachers and mentors in high school, and a good friend of my parents. She passed away at the age of 65, having just become a grandmother and a mother in law. When I went to her home for the service last week with my parents, we saw a photo of her and her husband dressed up for her son's wedding just a month ago. She looked healthy and full of joy, and it struck me as terribly sad that she would not enjoy years of carefree retirement with her husband, would not see her grandchildren grow up, and would no longer be around to share her colorful, wise, compassionate personality with all those who knew her. Linda's wisdom and guidance had a profound impact on my personal and professional life, my career choices and my decisions to travel and teach. When I was 16 and in high school, I don't think I had a full appreciation for just how much knowledge and experience Linda had, but now that I'm a little older I definitely recognize just how special and incredible she was, and I hope I can live my life in a way that would make her smile, that would make her nod her fiery red bob in approval, and that would make her proud of me.

Is it any wonder the last mile passed by quickly? I kept my pace up and even passed a few burly firefighters. I chatted with a 14-year-old high school kid whose energy seemed to be flagging and assured him that he could kick my 33 year old butt (and he did). We ran through a small glen of pine trees, down a hill, and right into a residential neighborhood. Around the block, up a small hill, down the street...I imagined what the people in these homes were doing on a cool, clear Sunday morning...reading the paper? drinking coffee? sleeping? I knew that soon I'd cross the finish line, see my parents, and drink my own coffee. The thought of all three was encouraging.

The home stretch was fun, and as I ran around the final corner and through a small cluster of bushes, I reminded myself to smile for the finish line. I picked up my pace and breathed deeply, ran the final few paces, saw my Dad and finished the race. My Mom appeared and congratulated me, and it felt great to share a trail race with them for the first time. Trail running has become a meaningful part of my life over the past year or so, and it was nice to have my parents experience this element with me. Not to mention, they are the #1 cheerleaders/support staff...

My friends soon finished and we all headed to Dunkin Donuts, where we feasted on bagels and toasted our victory (finishing!) and health with huge cups of coffee. A great run, beautiful weather, my friends & family, and a seemingly endless flow of coffee....what more could I ask for? (Well...a new car, but I'm not gonna get too picky here....)

Lynn Woods Trail Run - Sunday, October 26, 2008 - 15 K

Ouch. I hurt. My legs, my back, my feet. Today's run was a @#%$. Beautiful as it was, I hit my limit at around mile 6 of a 9 mile trail. Finishing a race never felt so good. The morning was cloudy and cool, and when I set out for Lynn from Brighton I expected a few raindrops. I didn't want to run in the rain, but the prospect of running through some mud didn't really bother me.

The drive was easy, and I enjoyed the quiet peacefullness of Sunday morning on the road. Alone in my car, I listened to music and phoned one of my friends. Since she has a one-year-old, I knew she'd be awake. Both early risers now, we often find ourselves phoning one another not long after sunrise on a weekend morning. Though our lives have taken different paths - she is married with a child and living in the suburbs of NYC, I am single and living in the 'big city' of Brighton - I cherish our conversations. In the same breath we're both adults juggling responsibilities and college kids giggling over gossip. As she headed to a yoga class and I drove towards another trail run, we caught up on the events of the week, our upcoming Girls Weekend in NYC, and silly, inane, giggle-inducing gossip.

I got to Lynn Woods just before 8 a.m. and pulled into the parking lot, which was very slowly filling up. It was damp and cool. I registered (#82!) and got back in my car to shut my eyes and listen to the radio. A few moments of stillness and reminding myself how fun this would be. Anytime I question the run I'm about to do, I remind myself of how lucky I am to have the chance and the ability to do it, and this usually gets me going, no matter how crummy or whiny I feel or how cold or rainy it is.

Pretty soon I saw Ben's truck pull into the lot, so I left my cozy car and hung out with him in the parking lot. Ben is one of the funniest, most good-humored and calm gentleman you could ever meet. He will go to the ends of the earth (and to the Finish Line) for his friends, he can be talked into almost any trail race, and he does a dead-on impression of Milton from Office Space. Ben is the guy you want to hang out with before a run! So in the cool morning pre-race moments, we hung out by his truck comparing trail shoes and drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee (Ben) and eating gummi bears (me). And then it was time to run. Well, almost.

The race was delayed because the previous night's rain and wind had washed away most of the trail markings. As someone with absolutely ZERO sense of direction (I get lost in my hometown), this made me reasonable nervous. So did the race director's repeated warnings that the trail was challenging and anyone who felt even the least bit unprepared should bow out. I could picture myself wandering through the Lynn Woods, lost and lonely, with only a pocket full of gummi bears to survive.....

We lined up at the start and then off we went, across the parking lot, up a hill, and into the woods. My hamstrings and lower back ached already - not a good sign - but soon enough we were darting along the path, hopping over branches and roots, sidestepping large rocks, and dodging puddles and the occasional pile of horse poop. Other than a few short and superficial conversations with my fellow runners, I was on my own. I'd say that I was alone with my thoughts, but I didn't even really think about anything. I breathed in and out, I ran, and I let the natural beauty and solitude of the woods envelop me. The air was clean and crisp and smelled of pine needles and wet leaves and Fall. By now it had even cleared up a little. The trees rustled and the pine needles and leaves and dirt crunched softly beneath our feet.

When I run on Sunday mornings I often joke with friends that I'm "praying at Our Lady of the Holy Running Shoes", because for me running is a spiritual act and has become increasingly so in the past year or two. It is one of few times I experience a harmony of mind, body, and spirit. It is my quiet time, my time with nature, my time with my thoughts and prayers and questions and gratitude. Believe me, when I'm one mile into a nine or ten mile run, I have plenty of time to chat with The Big Guy. And I have time to listen, too, which I am trying to do more and more. Absence of ipod, phone, traffic, etc. gives me the opportunity and the space to open myself - my heart, my mind, my spirit - up and be receptive to what I'm feeling (besides PAIN!) and hearing, and I find that the more I let myself do that, the more receptive I become. It's not that being receptive means getting some answer or message like a bolt of lightening; for me it just means experiencing or imagining what those 'answers' might be and where they might take me. Note: this is why I will never run an ultramarathon....too much time to think!

This particular run hurt - I mean it physically hurt. My body ached in several places and running/climbing up those hills began to take more and more of my energy. Even eating a few gummi bears didn't really help. I'd pop one in my mouth and let it melt away, seeing how far I could run before it dissolved completely. But the physical effort of putting one foot in front of the other occupied my mind, and I kept telling myself to JUST KEEP GOING. I had a mental pep-talk on replay - you can do it, you've done this before, you're halfway there, if you can make it this far you can make it to the end - but I have to admit, unlike on previous trail runs I really hit the "F@#$ YOU!" zone early on. Despite enjoying the woods, I kinda wanted this run to be over. When I approached the one and only water stop and the guy handing out Dixie cups said, "Lookin good! Almost there!" I wanted to punch him.

I pushed along, sometimes with others closely ahead or behind, which felt reassuring, but sometimes for long stretches on my own. One particularly long stretch was unmarked, and I was sure I'd lost the trail. I ran on a single-tread path, at times so obscured by brush and branches that I was sure I'd gone off course. I ran through a mossy, winding, green gully, through mud puddles and across wooden logs shaped into stream crossings. At one point I saw a helicopter overhead and as I heard the whirling blades get closer and louder I thought, that's it, they've sent out a search team. My nervousness grew stronger as I looked ahead and saw no one, looked behind and saw no one. I couldn't hear any other runners and despite keeping my eyes peeled for trail markers, I saw none.

Eventually I popped out onto a larger trail and heaved a sigh of relief. There is a stage of euphoria that is hard to describe...I think for me it happens when I'm out there long enough to know I'm gonna make it, to know that the bulk of the run is behind me, to know that a nice downhill stretch might be ahead. When I emerged from the woods, this is how I felt. It was like flying. I felt strong and alive...at this point I figured I had less than a mile left, and I could handle that. But the euphoria didn't last long...I saw the race director running my way and I was afraid I'd be swept off the course. I wasn't sure if there were still runners behind me, and I feared I could be the last one. "Almost there!" he shouted out, "You're in your last 5K! Two more hills and a hairpin turn and you're done!" HUH?! Was he kidding? I didn't have two more hills in me. I was back in the F@#$ YOU! zone and aching to reach the finish line. I walked for a bit and breathed deeply. I ran a little, and walked a little more. The hills came and went, though with much less ease than I describe it now. I took a wrong turn and saw someone in the distance waving me back on course. I was about to get irritated that the course wasn't better marked when I realized that the person up ahead was Ben. He'd run the 5K, finished long before me, and jogged back on course to run the last 1/2 mile or so with me. THAT is a true friend. I picked up my pace and we ran the last bit of the course together, both lamenting and celebrating its difficulty. Tough as it was, we'd both be finishers.

I crossed the finish line, knowing that my finishing time wasn't one I'd brag about but feeling happy about traversing nine pretty ferocious miles and finishing in one piece. 'cause the joy isn't in the bragging, it's in the running.

Bay State 1/2 Marathon, October 19, 2008
2:02

Today is Christine's 38th birthday. To celebrate, we ran the Bay State 1/2 Marathon in beautiful Lowell, MA. Why Bay State? Why Lowell? I don't know. Good timing? Easy to get to? Scenic? The promise of running faster to avoid being chased by thugs? I know, I know, Lowell has a bad rap. And if we believe everything we read, it's well deserved. But I digress - Christine wanted to celebrate her bday with a race, and I wanted to run another 1/2, so Bay State it was. And for the record, Lowell is not that bad. Some have said it's even going through a "Renaissance".

One of the interesting things about this race is that more than a third of the runners who opt for the full marathon qualify for Boston. A THIRD. It is probably the largest concentration of runners qualifying in a single race. As a result, the front of the pack full marathoners are lean, fast, and serious. we half marathoners maybe a little less so, but I did notice that this wasn't one of those rah-rah crowds. We started, we ran, that's it.

So I was nervous, as usual. I always fret about how much or little I sleep, what I've done the week before (too much? too little? more training? more sleep? less travel? more meditating on why I should not be worrying about training, sleep, and travel?), what I eat and drink the day before (too much caffeine? not enough water? too much water? too much fiber? too much sugar? not enough protein? something I will regret at mile 6?), and what I do the morning of the race. I've done more 13+ runs than I can count, but I still get nervous. I still doubt myself. My last two half-marathons were pathetic disasters (one was post food-poisoning, the other was burnout as a result of overtraining), so to be honest, I was feeling a little less than confident. But it was a beautiful day and I felt okay and I slept fine, so at a certain point we just have to say, what will be will be. Nothing more to do other than enjoy a Sunday morning run.

We left Brighton and drove up to Lowell in the dark. Daylight broke as we arrived there around 7:15 a.m. and we left the car in a parking garage, checking for last minute things like chapstick and bodyglide and ipods and my stash of gummy bears. After picking up our numbers we milled around the high school cafeteria for a while just killing time; eventually it was time to head out to the start line, and it's at that point that I usually have my realization of, "THIS IS IT. Go have fun." I learned a while ago that running sucks when you're pissed off and/or miserable, so ever since then I've reminded myself to just enjoy the run, have fun, and smile. That last one's important - the jaw muscles are some of the more important ones to work out on race day :)

And off we went. Christine and I ran together for two or three miles, but we agreed beforehand that we'd each run at our own pace and if that meant going faster or slower than each other, so be it. So we wished each other good luck and Christine took off ahead of me and I settled in for the next ten miles on my own. The air was so clear and crisp and cool and there I was, just out running by the river on a Sunday morning. It felt so good. I felt empowered and enlightened. Often times when I run I daydream or think about different things going on in my work or my life, but today I just zoned out. It was like meditation. Just running, just being.

At what point do the mind, the body and the spirit connect? At what place are they conjoined? For me, today, they connect around mile 6 or 7. I am absorbed in thought, in prayer, in meditation, in running. I feel alive and vibrant, spiritual and blessed. I know I'm going to finish, and I feel strong.

The double-loop course was actually more scenic than I imagined. We ran by trees bursting with color, old Victorian houses, and a piece of the river that flows over boulders and looks like something you'd see in the New Hampshire woods. The sky was clear blue with wispy clouds and crowds of teenagers had come out to staff waterstops and cheer. If you look there is beauty everywhere...even in Lowell, Mass.

After miles six and seven I just plugged along, ticking off the miles one by one, walking through waterstops and sipping Gatorade, listening to music to keep me going, realizing that by the time my playlist got to the Theme From Rocky I'd be finished. Though I knew I'd be happy to cross the finish line, I was enjoying myself. Soon we were in the home stretch. We passed a sign that said one mile left. I ate a few gummy bears and pushed myself a little harder. We crossed over the final bridge and the ball park was in sight. I knew the finish was near. But they teased us, because the very final 1/2 mile or so involves running around a corner and then behind the ballpark, where you think the finish line will be waiting, but alas, you enter that ballpark and get to/have to run a lap around the bases before crossing the actual finish line. And then that's it.

They gave us medals and water and removed the timing chips from our shoes. They wrapped us in mylar blankets and directed us to the food. I wandered around looking for Christine for a while, and when at last we found each other in the crowd we both had huge smiles on our faces. Christine finished in 1:59, and I finished just two and half minutes after her at 2:02. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday morning and celebrate my sister's birthday. I vote for making it an annual tradition.

Oxford Dam Trail Run - Saturday, August 9, 2009 - 10 miles...or so they said...
(or, "that damn Oxford Trail Run")

I was nervous. So nervous I didn't even want to talk about it, and I regretted letting other people know I was planning to do it, because then if it turned out to be a miserable run, I'd have to relive the misery by telling everyone just HOW bad it was. But on the contrary, it was great. Stupendous. Exhilirating. Amazing. Incredible. Empowering. Awesome. Beautiful. Prayerful, meditative, challenging, grueling. It beat me up and then lifted me back up. It was the longest trail run I've ever done, and I DID IT.

After a soy latte, a bagel and the Saturday paper, I left my apartment around 7am. Good thing I took directions, because my GPS proved useless and started sending me to Oxford, Rhode Island. The whole drive out there I kept wondering, what the hell am I doing? What gave me the crazy idea that I can do this? Why am I voluntarily subjecting myself to a beat-down on this otherwise beautiful Saturday morning?

I got to the race, parked, and picked up my number (not a number, actually, but my name on a flourescent sticker). No sign of Christine and I didn't know anyone and, surrounded by gazelle-like runners, I felt nervous once again. But soon enough I recognized someone in the small crowd, Christine called to say she was on her way, and I met a 65 year old woman from Beacon Hill who just started running and looked so positively happy to be preparing for a run in the woods that I couldn't help but absorb some of her enthusiasm. I CAN DO THIS, I told myself. It's just a run in the woods on a sunny Saturday morning - no pressure, no world records, and hopefully no chafing. Just me, my ziploc bag of gummy bears, and 10.5 glorious miles of dirt.

We started, and off we went, down a rocky hill and into the woods. The small crowd thinned out and I stayed at the back, a place I've come to feel comfortable. There was a little chit chat and then that was it, I was alone with my thoughts, running through the woods, breathing, reminding myself to enjoy this adventure, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself to have fun.

It was probably one of the hardest runs I've ever done. I slipped in a mud puddle before mile 2, lost my balance twice when I tripped over rocks and roots, and just about ate gravel when I somehow went airborne and then landed flat on my side with a big 'THUMP'. But that was just the beginning of the fun - the runners ahead of me lost the trail markings, so we ran a mile off course, and as luck would have it, that mile was STRAIGHT uphill - a rocky, craggy, boulder-laden hill. We all ran (okay, it was hardly running....more like delicate scooting) back down, found the trail and kept on going. We slogged across an ankle-deep stream, which I thought was the one the race director mentioned at the start. Turns out the one he was actually talking about was thigh-high and about 20 feet wide. And yes, the only way across it is through it (kind of like challenging situations in life...what can I say, I get contemplative when I run). After slipping in the mud and falling in the gravel, wading across a stream was kind of refreshing and much less miserable than I anticipated. The water was crystal-clear, and it felt cold and clean as it washed away the mud and grime and sweat on my legs.

The next few miles I listened to the squish-squish of water in my shoes. The woods were quiet, and at times I was alone. I ran through meadows and gullies, along wooded paths, and up rocky, root-covered paths no wider than my two feet. I dodged branches and sticks. There was only the sound of my breathing, my feet softly pounding the dirt, and the occasional rustle of leaves. The air felt clean as I inhaled and exhaled, and I drank in the purity of the environment.

I was tempted to take my ipod on the run because I knew it would be long and tough, but I left it in the car and let my mind wander. That much time alone with one's thoughts can be unsettling, but today it had a calming and cleansing effect. So many things were weighing heavy on my mind this week. I had been upset and irritated and stressed about different things. But after several miles everything seemed just about manageable; everything would be fine. I was completely absorbed by the exhiliration of running and the meditative silence of the woods. I let my thoughts come in to my mind and roll around for a while, and then I let them go. Before long, I felt renewed. And after ten miles, I felt like one hell of a badass.

I didn't need to walk as much as I expected, and I actually enjoyed the run. I mean REALLY ENJOYED it. When I was tempted to listen to my inner bitching and moaning, I thought, hell, no one forced me to sign up for this...why not just enjoy it and have fun? I smiled, I sang to myself, I hummed. I ran my own pace, ran my own race, and enjoyed it. I let myself find my speed and my 'zone', and I was really happy there.

I kept running through/over/around the rocks, roots, mushrooms, stumps, branches, gravel, mud, trees, streams, and puddles. I just kept running and eventually came to a point where I knew I had to be near the finish. I ran out of the woods and through the chute, and that was it. 11.5 miles of dirt and sweat and sun, 2+ hours, 1 bag of gummi bears, and all before noontime. Is there another trail run next weekend?

Jamaica

Reflections on Jamaica

This is my journal from the Jamaica trip. It is a little abstract/random, but hopefully captures the essence of the trip as I experienced it. I am still processing it myself! It was an incredibly intense time in so many ways, all of which I am grateful for. What I saw and what I learned has already had a profound impact on me and will for most likely the rest of my life.

Anyhow, here you go:

Monday, 1.21.08, 9am
Erica is 24, she has 3 children. She is dying of AIDS. We talked about music, movies, and Kingston. She vomited several times and had a seizure while I was holding her hand. She told me about the father of her children and said it took only one year to “mash up” (ruin) her life.

When we came back to the convent where Sr. Beverly lives, a young woman and her two little girls are waiting for Sr. The woman wants us to see her family, so we walk together to her house, a one-room shack with a bare bed and a stove. Reggae music blares constantly and there is trash everywhere. Her kids, Therese and Theresa, are so, so, so cute. They are precious. I played with the older one (age 3), sang “I’m a little teapot” many times. She thought my white nose was funny and kept squeezing and poking it. Her Mom was assaulted last week - her clothes were taken from her.

Women’s issues are very serious here - violence, AIDS, motherhood, unemployment, malnutrition, empowerment, education. The challenge we are feeling and experiencing here is wanting to empower and not enable the people with whom we work. We do not want to be the “rich white Americans” who come down here one week in the year and shower the people with books and supplies, many of which will be pirated on the street. The question becomes: how does one really help here? The needs are so great, so massive, that it is tempting to want to come in and stage a complete overhaul. But like anywhere you see poverty, the problems run so deep - historically, culturally, economically - and change of any type is a long, long process.

Later today we drove with Sr. Beverly to the grocery store to buy food for the families we visited. We went back to Erica and found her sitting up on a milk crate in her yard. She is so frail and so thin. Skeletal. Her ribs poke out through her nightgown and her shoulder blades are visible.

A word about the side of Kingston we’ve seen so far: garbage dump. Ok, it’s two words. It is unlike anything I have ever, ever seen. Stray dogs, chickens, goats, and pigs roam the streets pocked with potholes (trenches, really) and littered with glass, trash, garbage, refuse, etc. There are piles of trash in the street and junkyards on every corner. The “homes” are literally hovels of corrugated tin and cinder blocks.

Carcia and her two girls, Theresa and Therese, met us at Sr. Beverly’s house with bare feet and walked through the streets to their home the same way. Their “home” is a one-room shed with a stove, a clothes-line, and a bedframe with cardboard on it (not a mattress). They live next to the burned-out shell of the home they lost in a fire. Music blares constantly. Trash is everywhere. Erica’s room was worse - a double bed is heaped with dirty clothes, papers, etc. There is a large TV, microwave, and a hotplate within reach, and maybe 2 sq. feet of floorspace. This is it - this is her home. The toilet is outside. The holes in the wall are big enough to pass your hands through, but luckily, according to Erica's grandmother, the roof does not leak when it rains.

The poverty and filth are astounding. One woman in my group was literally offered a baby to take home. These are the poorest of the poor, people for whom three meals a day is not a given and new clothes are a luxury. We had kids coming to school on Monday with tummy aches because their last meal was at school on Friday. Kids wearing shoes 2 sizes too big because that's all they had. Kids with their teeth literally falling out from decay. How can I pay $4 for a latte at home and not even think about it?

Tuesday, 1.22.08
Still trying to process this day and my glimpse into the Kingston educational “system”. Woke at 7 and walked laps around the soccer field for a little bit with my two roommates. Shower, coffee, oatmeal, morning chit-chat, which I quite enjoy. We have a great group - big enough for some variety, small enough to get to know everyone. And in the midst of all this intense Jamaica stuff, the conversations I've shared with my teammates have been enlightening, inspiring, comforting, and meaningful. Running around the soccer field in the morning and talking about life, death, theology and spirituality; washing dishes and learning how someone chose their career; hearing someone's love story as we have Red Stripe beers on the veranda. There is a lot of wisdom, experience, and strength within the group. And wisdom, did I mention wisdom? LOTS of it.

Walked to Sr. Beverly’s with a few others. I was brave or foolish enough to bring my camera today and quickly learned that while taking pics of kids is okay (actually, they love it), pics of adults are not a great idea. Very disruptive.

At Sr. Beverly’s we waited a bit and I made some new friends in the street. One of the kids from yesterday and her brother (?) were playing barefoot in the street, so we played “Simon Says”, or some variation of them simply copying everything I did. We picked flowers - the most amazing and powerful juxtaposition of beauty and filth as one, as these two beautiful kids picked blossoms from a pink azalea surrounded by garbage and trash. We put the flowers behind our ears and made up a “flower dance” - clearly I have reached a point in my life at which dancing and jumping on one foot in the middle of the street in the Kingston ghetto doesn't really faze me...

Fr. Peter then walked me over to the pre-school/elementary school - way more than I bargained for but fun. The classroom held approx. 35 - 40 kids and was cramped and messy. I could not determine much of an agenda - the kids were absolutely beautiful and wild - jumping, pushing, climbing over desks, tipping over chairs, yelling. And I felt very awkward about my role as authoritarian or teacher but complete stranger. I couldn’t understand much of what the kids were saying and imagine it was mutual. After about 45 minutes, the teacher gave me a piece of chalk, told me they were learning about the letter “G”, and left the room. How about “G” for OH MY GOD. My let’s-learn-about-the-letter-G repertoire lasted for about 30 seconds before I resorted to “Simon Says”, songs, deep breathing and an ad-hoc alphabet game that did not quite catch on. Later we read a story and drew pictures, ate lunch, and “rested”.

What surprised me about today - kids running around without shoes, teachers yelling, the amount of scars the kids had, how aggressively they played at recess, how little they had on the playground and in the classroom - no crayons, old books virtually falling apart, a swing set with no swings. I also noticed that the parents who came to pick up their 5-year old kids had to be a good 10 years younger than me (I am 32). Impressions here - music is everywhere, blaring. A lot of people on the street seem to be wandering or just hanging out. The poverty we see is complex and very deeply rooted in the culture, history and economics of Jamaica. I want to see more, because just as I know that seeing only a resort would not be a complete picture, I know, too, that there is more to Kingston than the few square blocks we are limited to for now.

It is hot - so hot. You drip with sweat just standing in one place. We sweat through our t-shirts before 9am. But the sky is clear, brilliant and expansive, and right now there is the most pleasant breeze blowing through the palm trees.

Wednesday, 1.23.08
Woke early and ran 1.5 miles around the soccer field. It was beautiful to just be awake at that time of day and see and hear the place wake up - the birds, the roosters, the silence. I loved seeing how we each began the day - some in prayer and contemplation, yoga or meditation, coffee and the paper, a morning walk, a jog. And somehow by 8:30 we all convene, fed and caffeinated, and take our assignments for the day.

I was part of the medical team today and did intake work as Dr. Tony and Patti did exams. Kids 13 - 17, for the most part very healthy but a lot of lethargy, headaches, stomach aches. One girl, 14, had a tumor. Even with surgery it will likely come back.This afternoon we were able to walk to the local market with Angie, a friend of Fr. Peter. Words cannot do it justice - trash everywhere, blaring music, the stench of rotten produce and weed, the sights of chicken feet, bottles of medicinal honey, Scotch bonnet peppers, yams, beans, string beans, ginger, peas, herbs, spices. We ate raw peanuts, which tasted a lot like beans.

Thursday, 1.24.08
Medical team this morning - walked kids from the infant school to the church for medical exams. Age 3 - 5, lots of tooth decay, a speech impediment, and a girl with crossed eyes, but general healthy kids considering the malnutrition and filth.

Made rounds with Sr. Beverly during the afternoon - so hot, it is impossible to not feel grimy by 2pm.

The days have typically been as follows:
6:30 - wake up, walk/run, shower, coffee
7:45 - 8:30 - breakfast
8:30 - 12 - service work
12 - 12:30 - lunch
12:30 - 2ish - service work
2 - 4:30 - walk back, shower, read, 'free time'
4:30 - 5:15 - reflection on the veranda (We discuss our greatest challenges and graces for the day)
5:15 - 5:45 - mass
5:45 - 6:30 - “The Most Wonderful Time of the Day”...Red Stripe beers on the veranda
6:30 - 7:30 - dinner and dishes
7:30 - 9ish - program/lecture
9 or 9:30 - bed! (and we are beat!)

Friday/SaturdayFriday morning I met with the principal of St. George’s high school - amazing meeting and so exciting to talk about development/advancement and the opportunities for the school’s growth.

Yesterday afternoon we drove to Ocho Rios - beautiful drive, passed through Fern Gully (like the Disney movie), stopped for roadside food. I have to say, though I’ve come around to Jamaican rum and Red Stripe, Jamaican food doesn’t really excite me - jerk chicken/pork - not really my thing. Still haven't found jerk-tofu...

We are staying (stayed last night) at a “resort” at Ocho Rios (“Ochi”) and I am uncomfortable with the “gated resort” concept - it feels segregated. But we had a fun night last night, dancing to some really horrible live music. Our rooms are immense, overlooking the blue ocean, and I am sitting on the patio listening to the waves and looking out on the water. No worries...

Bus/van ride home was long. Today I think I was very conscious of not feeling useful, giving, and in awe, as I have for the time here until now. In contrast to the poverty we have spent time with, hanging out with fruity drinks at the beachside bar felt strange. Today, also, I think I felt really disgusted by the filth, environmental disregard, and crumbly, dirty shabby state of nearly every building and neighborhood and street. Trash is everywhere. Buildings and homes are falling apart. Everything seems broken and messy. Paint is peeling, walls are only half there, windows are broken or not even there at all, cars are banged up. Everything is just dirty, dingy, broken and kind of sad. You wonder how long people live here before feeling completely and utterly hopeless. How can people like Sr. Beverly and Fr. Peter do their work day after day and year after year and still smile and joke and be so loving and patient and kind? Neither of them once rolled their eyes or threw up their hands in resignation. I think there are few, few people like them, who can see the despair and continue on. The rest of us get our eyes opened just enough to cry.

Monday, 1.28.08
Flying home and trying to still process, conclude, or make sense of the past week. Already it seems like a completely different time and place. With the exception of my bug bites, I could be coming home from any trip. I don’t know what to make of the week. There is almost no way or words to sum up the intensity of the experience - spiritually, physically, mentally, emotionally. I can’t describe it solely as fun, intense, challenging, amazing or anything else.

The spiritual component, for certain, was a powerful part of the trip. Reflecting daily and sharing our thoughts, talking about faith and god and existence - this is something I think about a lot but don’t do often. For me, knowing and seeing that we are all on a spiritual path with bumps and detours was enlightening. Fr. Peter, who believes in ordination of women priests, Sr. Beverly, who gives every minute of every day to god through serving the poor. That we all experienced and felt faith, religion and god in different yet many similar ways was profound.

Physically, the relative discomfort served to remind me of how much I have and how little I need. Cold showers, filth, heat, constantly sweating, being bitten by mosquitos, living communally, not having my typical comforts of home - bed, gym, foods I like, independence, my music - this was all a change for me. And yet, I was happy. Genuinely, deeply happy. We all got along, I never went hungry, I found someone to accompany me on morning laps around the soccer field, I laughed with my roommates, and we all somehow understood and almost revered the need - not the want - for downtime and introspection and contemplation, and the time and space to reflect and process, whether on the porch at 4pm, in the chapel at 6am, alone or with others. I know at this point in my life that I need my alone time to recharge and refocus; if I don’t do it, I don’t function well. And I never felt like I needed to escape or run and hide. We all sort of got it - the need for reflection and the space for that.

What I take away from this, in addition to the profound impact of even so briefly living with and serving the poor, are a few things, items we talked about a lot this week and that really stayed with me:
1) God is everywhere. This is the cornerstone of Ignatian spirituality and I began to understand it. It was hard for me, and for all the team, to believe that genuinely and not struggle with it when seeing such poverty and injustice. Where is god when babies are dying and kids are starving and young women are being abused and abandoned? Where is god on the filthy, trashy streets filled with violence? Where is god in the environmental destruction - the complete contamination of the soil and air and water? None of us this week had solid answers. Some had more faith and acceptance that god’s presence really was there, in the Fr. Peters and Sr. Beverlys, in the kindness of strangers and the strength and innocence of children in the flowers growing in abandoned lots and even the smallest signs of a hopeful future, a better life, or a better tomorrow. Despite the economic and political mess that is Kingston, there are really good, hopeful people who are giving their lives to making it better. This moved me profoundly, because although I felt happy about being able to do something, I don’t know that I could give my life to the extent that others do. But I think what I took away was that doing something vs. nothing and just simply being hopeful and faithful and believing that there are good and gracious and giving people. So going back to item #1, yes, I guess god is everywhere.

2) Trusting in the spiritual path and journey that is different for each of us. Being patient and open to what god “calls” me to do and where god wants me to be. NOT EASY. Our society is one that encourages empowerment and controlling one’s destiny, and to a certain extent, we need to prepare ourselves for the future that we want. For a while I have really struggled with the question of what DO I want? What is my calling? How do I figure it out? I struggle because perhaps I feel like I should have it figured out. But the wonderful lesson of this week was that it will happen on its own. I am exactly where I’m “supposed to be”, and I’ll “end up” just where I’m supposed to. After listening to Fr. Peter and Principal Campbell talk about what they thought they wanted to do professionally and how they turned out to be completely wrong and in fact found way more happiness than they ever expected in these unlikely places and careers, I believed more that I’m fine where I am and on a path to something yet unseen. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

So I don’t know what to really make of it all - this challenging, enlightening, empowering, funny, sad, fun, peaceful, quiet, noisy adventure in Jamaica. A personal experience but a shared one as well. How can you not bond in this type of situation? I feel like I got to know my teammates more personally than some people I’ve known for years. And there is something very significant about having gone through this craziness and intensity and laughing and crying together.

For me, it was good to be away, doing something completely different, someplace completely different with new people. It gives me new perspective and energy and focus, new appreciation for where I am and what and who I have in my life, and perhaps a better idea of what I want to do and at the very least, how I want to do it.

Addendum - Musings upon returning home
I have been home for five days. Coming home was amazing. My little apartment felt like a palace, and my ‘96 Toyota like a limousine. It is hard to explain this trip, even harder to summarize it with pictures and words. Perhaps the best I can do is say that although it was a service trip with a spiritual component, it felt more like a spiritual retreat with a service component. It has changed me.

My mosquito bites are almost gone, and all my dirty laundry has been washed, folded, and put away. I’m happy to be eating big salads and going to the gym, and even going to work. Coming back to my “normal” life with a new perspective has been refreshing. I am grateful for very little things, like indoor plumbing and Starbucks. I am also acutely aware that it is not up to a few good people to save the whole world; it is up to everyone to save a little part of it.