Middlesex Fells 8 Mile Trail Run

Now this was a trail run. No dogs, no strollers, no maps, no aid stations. No race tshirts, goody bags, flyers, coupons, sports drinks, or finishers medals. Just several dozen people and w whole bunch of dirt, rocks, mud, branches, pine cones, rocks, incline, incline, incline, switchbacks, scrambling, and what some might call "technical footwork". And it was awesome.

Left early to pick up two friends in South Boston. Got kind of lost on the way there. We finally hit 93N and headed to Stoneham. Got there with plenty of time to spare, picked up our numbers (computer-printed cards with our name, age, and a funny quote about trail running), congregated in a scrubby looking parking lot by the trail head, and at precisely 8:00 a.m., off we went.

Today was a hard but awesome run. Perfect temp - I didn't feel over or underdressed. The crisp air felt just right, and the dark clouds held out long enough that we barely felt a breeze rustle through the trees, though snow and rain were forecasted. Last week's run hurt, plain and simple. I was finished running about three miles before the race actually ended. But today -today!! - what a difference a week makes. I felt good. I felt strong and I settled into a rhythm pretty quickly. Not a fast pace, but a comfortable speed that would get me to the finish line.

Two things helped.

One: a nice pace group. A few loudmouths who felt compelled to yap the entire run, but otherwise a nice crew around me. I didn't get passed by a ton of people, so that felt great. I have found that in races past, as soon as I start getting passed by hordes of runners, I am mentally finished. I spiral down the "I'm so slow, a guy with a babyjogger is passing me!" course, and my running confidence suffers the consequences. I know, I know. Run my own race. And that is my mantra, but getting passed by scores of people does make a person feel a little on the pokey side.

Two: No mileage markers! This was freakin' awesome! Not knowing where I was or how far I'd run was fantastic. None of those "oo, I must have done seven miles by now! What?? Only two?" moments. None of that "three down, five to go!". Not paying attention to mile markers allowed me a freedom I don't think I have felt before in a trail run. It was glorious. All I had to do this morning was go out there and enjoy my run. As far as trail running goes, ignorance really is bliss.

The no mile markers thing got me to thinking. As much as I need, value and retrospectively depend on milestones in my life, there is something to be said for not always seeing them along the way. Awareness of transitions or turning points can be helpful as we move through life, make decisions and choices, and go where we need to go, but there is something to be said for just focusing on the scenery, breathing in and out, and trying not to trip. There is something to be said for running through the woods without a map, without a distance gage, and really, without a clue. Sometime I am so hung up on taking stock of where I am and what I'm doing and how far I have come and how far I have to go that I miss the beauty of where I am. I am thinking about the finish line when there's a whole lotta pretty scenery before I get there. There's a start, and there'll be a finish. The territory in between is simply there for the running, some of it hard, some of it harder, none of it easy, but all of it pretty darn sweet. Such is life, no?

There were moments during the run this morning when I could feel blisters forming on my feet or when I felt a little winded, but all in all this run really rocked. Why? 'Cause I enjoyed it. And such should be life.

Sometimes You Run Alone

Sunday, 29 November 2009 - Tough Ten Mile Turkey Trot, Marlborough, MA

For the record, they were not kidding about the course when they termed it "tough". Actually, that's a bit of an understatement.

Also for the record, race participants donated ~1500 canned goods for a local food pantry. The warm fuzzies from that took the sting out of my finishing wayyyy near the back of the pack.

And one final one for the record: do men just generate more pee than women or something? I must have seen at least a half dozen men run off course to "water the trees" in the first mile alone. Ten miles later and I didn't see one woman cop a squat the whole time!

I did this race last year with two friends and have very fond memories of running along the streets of Marlborough, burning off some Thanksgiving calories, taking on the massive hill at Mile 9, and finishing quite tired but happy. So when Thanksgiving approached this year, I checked to confirm this race and started spreading the word. The few "maybes" I managed to drum up quickly turned to "nos" due to injuries, Thanksgiving travel, or other commitments. For all of 20 seconds I thought about skipping the race this year and running on my own, much closer to home. Why trek out to Marlborough when I could roll out of bed, hit the Newton hills and be at my kitchen counter with the Sunday paper before 9 a.m.? But something stubborn in my mind wanted to do this run, solo status be damned.

One of the reasons why I love this run is because the registration fee is ten canned goods for a local food pantry. Before the start of the race, the race director announced that over 500 families visited the food pantry last week. So this run is, for me, something of a gratitude run. I think of people who do not have enough to eat and I know that I'm called to do more than show up for a run on a gorgeous Sunday morning. I am grateful - and keenly aware - that I am blessed with having enough food to eat and terrific people to share it with.

I drove out to Marlborough alone, leaving my house before 7 a.m. and traveling west on the Pike with few other cars. A feeling of lonesomeness nagged at me, as it did last night when I was getting my running clothes ready. It's rare for me to drive to a race alone, and even rarer for me not to be meeting someone there. Usually the car ride out is enlivened with music and chit chat, as my running pals or my sister and I catch up with each other. But this time I was alone, it was quiet, and I was very aware of that. Despite the fact that my friends and I have a tacit agreement to run our own races (i.e., run our own pace and no slower or faster than we'd go on our own), the start and finish line are usually places of smiles, jokes, and brief conversations. Running with my friends is my social life, and driving to and running a race by myself felt like going to Friday night happy hour alone.

I arrived early to the race start, dropped off my canned goods, picked up my race number and returned to my car to read the Sunday paper and listen to country music. One of the perks of driving alone? No one will make fun of my love for Willie Nelson. It was soon time to start and I, along with 100 or so other runners, lined up near the start line at the edge of the park. A course description was given, the national anthem was sung, and off we went. It was early morning and the air was still and quiet. Few people were out and as we ran through the quiet suburban streets, we did not make much noise at all. This wasn't a "rah rah" kind of race or crowd; we just hit the road and ran. Not much conversation, not much interaction. Just a whole lotta uphill running.

I ran alone, breathing the fresh air and enjoying the tall pine trees and rolling hills to my left and to my right. The streets were hilly but manageable and the clear blue sky and crisp air provided ideal running conditions. With the exception of a few brief hellos or nods, I didn't talk with anyone at all. The first several miles passed quickly as I thought over the past few days, the days ahead, and a million other things. Running usually opens the doorway of my heart and my mind and allows me the chance to process feelings, experiences, and thoughts. Today that door was wide open, and the things that crossed my mind seemed all too heavy and too serious for a Sunday morning run. But I let those thoughts come up, and I tried to make sense of the ones I could and let go of the ones I couldn't. I thought about my future career, and how I am on the way from something to something else, yet, at present, wondering how to identify myself. I'm not a fundraiser anymore, and I'm not a chaplain yet. I'm hovering between the two worlds, rejecting one and not yet fully part of the other. I thought about the paper I worked on all day and the ones I have yet to write in the weeks ahead. I thought about a relationship in my life and the reality that it may soon end, despite how much I wish it were otherwise. Running along, tackling the hills of the race course, pondering my own existence and future, I did feel quite alone. Normally I love solitude, but today it saddened me somewhat. Coming off of four days of nonstop family time, I felt quite suddenly and acutely the sharp pang of being alone, of driving to this race alone, running it alone, and having no one waiting for me at the finish line. But I realized that we all run alone sometimes. We do. Sometimes we do because we want to and sometimes we do because we have to. No one else can plan my future or make decisions about my relationships anymore than they can run my race for me today. And though I ran alone today, I am never really alone. There'll be someone at the next race, and the one after that. I'll carpool with friends, and we'll talk at the start line, and give each other sweaty hugs at the finish line. And the same will happen with life, because even when we feel alone, even when we feel like it's us vs. the world, there is a quiet, sometimes invisible army of friends and loved ones, people who care for us, and they are always there. Sometimes you run alone, and sometimes that's just what you need to do.

Right in Front of Me, Part II

Chilliman 1/2 Marathon, Newton, MA

Haven't done a 1/2 marathon in a while and so was rather easily talked into this one. For the record: BEST race swag ever. The "goody bag" was actually one of those reusable canvas shopping totes. I am all about the practical swag.

I did the usual in prep for this 1/2. Maybe a little less freaking out, for some reason, but my training somehow survived without it. Woke up at 5:30 a.m. this morning, which I loved. I love waking up early, even more so if it's actually still dark out. It gives me this feeling of ownership of my day as I physically witness it begin in nature. And the peace, the solitude, the tranquility of the city at that hour. It is something I have loved for a long, long time. Alarm went off and I allowed myself one press on the snooze button before throwing off the covers and launching myself out of bed. I prayed for a minute, then got up and threw on the running clothes I set out last night. Picked up my newspaper from right outside my door (the best luxury $2.50 can buy is home delivery of the Sunday paper), made some coffee, and skimmed the front page section while eating my customary race morning bagel. Just after 6:00 a.m. I gathered my things and headed out. I love that feeling of purpose that comes with leaving my house so early on a weekend morning. Call me crazy, but leaving that early reminds me that I'm gonna accomplish something, whether it's a run, a trip, or something much more mundane. 

It is still drizzling when I arrive at the race start. After accidentally waving frantically at someone who I thought was Ben, I finally find him in the parking lot and we hang out in his truck. We shoot the breeze and talk about everything from country music to gang violence to best races t-shirts. That's what makes Ben the person you wanna hang out with before a race!

Soon it's time to get to the start line. It's lightly misting, but actually kind of pleasant. Ben & I chat and make jokes. I notice that the majority of the crowd is half my age and twice my speed. And then we are off. The crowd very quickly thins out as we run through quiet residential streets of Newton. The houses are breathtaking, and I spend mile after mile gazing at huge, old Victorians, sprawling moderns, and classic colonials. The stained glass windows and ornate porches and dormers and spires hold my attention. We pass the reservoir as fog lifts from its surface. It is quiet, damp and peaceful this Sunday morning. A few people have come out to cheer, but in general it's a serene morning in Newton.

It's a very challenging course. Hill after hill after hill. We run through neighborhoods I'm very familiar with - they are less than a mile from my house, and they are the streets I often run on Sunday mornings. But usually, I am alone. Today, I am surrounded by a sea of spandex.

Race highlights include a little kid playing the drum in his front window as we pass by, a runner wearing spandex bike shorts meant to look like acid-washed jeans, and a bright yellow toilet in the middle of someone's front lawn. Seriously, it is not everyday you see a multi-million dollar Newton  house with a crapper in the garden. It made me laugh out loud.

The race is hard. I walk for several short segments, and my legs hurt. My back hurts. I have a cramp. I am not miserable, but I've had better runs. I talk briefly with a guy who looks familiar, but we discover we don't know each other. Nonetheless, I appreciate the company. Later on, .5 miles from the finish, this very same guy cheers me on when I slow to a walk. "C'mon, keep it going, keep it going, you can do it", he calls out to me. I pick up my pace, running again, counting the tenths of a mile til the end. It is this anonymous man's encouragement that pushes me to the finish line. 

I see the end and give it my all, crossing the finish line with my heart pounding. Tired. Done.

Right in Front of Me

It has been a busy week. What the hell, it's been a busy EIGHT weeks. Fall semester is more than halfway over; I am working out a schedule for the next 18 months and trying to fit together the many, many pieces of this jigsaw puzzle journey.

Last week's trail run was fun, though a little disappointing because the trail was mismarked, causing many of us to get lost and lose a few miles. Instead of running 10 I did 8.

This week has been so full. Full of emotions, experiences, people, intensity and calm. There has been a lot to process and, by the grace of God, the right people have been there at the right times to walk with me. When I headed out for my run this morning I was mentally reviewing everything that's occupied my mind this week - trying to work out my class schedule, thinking about a job and an internship, worrying about a friend's health, beginning spiritual direction, spending time with a few very dear friends, contemplating a relationship, planning a trip, getting involved with school activities, and what to do with all the vegetables in my fridge. I have also not maintained the best eating and sleeping habits this week, so when I headed out I felt a little physically heavy too.

But it was a beautiful morning, and soon all of those things began to float away. I listened to my music and ran up the hills of Newton, inhaling the fresh, clear fall air. It felt so good to pound the pavement and sweat; I found myself smiling. As all of those things on my mind gently lifted, I felt serenity and energy.

I have a friend who gets a huge rush from discovering new streets in neighborhoods he's already familiar with. The amount of joy he gets from this is awesome. It's something so small and seemingly mundane, yet when he's driving around and discovers a shortcut or side street leading to a main road he already knows, seeing the smile on his face is priceless. 

Although I've lived in my neighborhood for almost six years, I've adopted his enthusiasm and excitement at discovering new streets and lately I've challenged myself to change my running route and incorporate new streets. Doing this forces me to abandon my rigid out-and-back route with a set time; it allows me to meander, discover, and see things I wouldn't otherwise see. It liberates me from the drill of running up one side of a main street and back on the other side, til my miles are done, and opens my eyes to newness.

This morning I turned off Comm. Ave. and let the side streets carry me forward. The fall sunshine, fresh air and crunchy leaves felt so good. The hills energized me and I found myself tackling more of them than usual, and liking it. I gazed at the houses around me as I passed by. I'd never seen them before and many of them were breathtaking - contemporary, colonial, Victorian, Georgian, Modern. Although I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood where I was running, I knew I was close enough to find my way back. I let myself keep going, exploring new streets and taking in the beautiful architecture. Soon enough, a tiny side street dumped me out onto a main street near the high school and knew exactly where I was. 

As I ran back on the main street where I normally run I found myself wondering, if I hadn't let myself wander down those side streets, what would I have missed? I wouldn't have seen all of those beautiful houses, so close to where I live and run and yet, til now, undiscovered. I began thinking about all of the things that had occupied my mind this week - things to be understood, planned, worked out, figured out, and taken care of. At many points during the week I found myself wondering how to figure things out, how to make things fit together, how to find solutions and keep moving forward. Thinking about those side streets and gorgeous houses I wondered, what else is right in front of me, yet I am failing to see? What else is right there, right around the corner, but I haven't gone there yet? Maybe it's time to see what's there.

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell am I doing?? The thought has passed through my mind more than a few times over the course of fourteen years of running - before my first marathon in 1999, the morning of my first triathlon (running isn't enough?! biking and swimming, too??), the night before running Boston in 2007, at the beginning of my very first trail race, and as my feet crossed the start line for my most recent and longest, hardest trail run. 

What the hell am I doing? I often supplemented the initial question with how on earth did I get here? How am I going to finish this? What if it's too hard? Did I train enough? Do I know what I'm doing? How will I keep myself going? Why are so many people so much faster/fitter/better than I am? Why is that man wearing such short shorts? So many questions, and so few answers.

And now, as I prepare to step across the threshold of another Start Line, I am asking myself that very first question again. But this time it's a different kind of run, a different kind of pace, and a different course all together. After ten years - ten years! - of contemplation, I'm going back to school to become a chaplain. In three days, I'll be at the "starting line" of a two year Master's program.

Most of the races and runs I've done were somewhat spontaneous decisions. I never had "run a marathon" or "run a 25 KM trail run" on my List of Things to Do Before I Die. 

Consider:

First marathon: My mom and I went to an information meeting for a charity training program, listened to their talk for five minutes, looked at each other and simultaneously said, "Let's do it!!" We signed up, we trained, we carbo loaded, and we did it. Upon crossing the finish line I had one thought: Marathons? Yeah, one and done.

Boston Marathon: Second day at my new job and my boss tells me that the university has a team that trains for the marathon. She casually adds that no one from our department has ever participated. Before I know what's happening, words tumble from my mouth: "I'll do it!" I walk out of her office and promptly feel like kicking myself, but soon enough I'm excited about it. Excited and terrified, but for the most part excited. It turns out to be an amazing and unforgettable experience. 

First trail run: "Hey, what are you guys doing next weekend? Want to do this run? It's called a trail run. I guess that means you run on trails?" We pile into my '96 Corolla early the next Saturday morning and drive to a State Park in Central Massachusetts. Most of the runners there are wearing race t-shirts dating back to before I was born. They look like they know what they're doing. We go along with the very small crowd and when we reach the start, the race director says, "Uh, okay everyone. I guess you can go ahead and start. Have a good run." We're off, through the woods, over the branches, and up and down the hills. We have a blast, cross the finish line drenched in sweat, and my friend takes first place. Trail running? I'm down with that.

Hardest trail run: There comes a point in the lives of many runners when they say, what else is there? What more can I do? How else can I beat up my body, challenge myself, and get an ugly t-shirt? A longer trail run! I happen to find one in Maine. It coincides with a long weekend and within an hour I recruit two friends who are interested in running it. We fax in registration forms and that's it - we're in. What seems like a few days later, we drive North, we run for miles and miles through the woods and over the hills, and we come home with wearable shirts, pint glasses, and serious bragging rights.

So there's a theme here...I have never really overthought registering for a race, or thought a whole lot about it at all. The process usually involves happening upon a race listing, feeling my interest spike, getting a few friends on board, and running. 

I find myself now, at the starting line of a few years of school before embarking on an entirely new career, feeling a little bit like I feel at the start of a race, especially those races the likes of which I have not yet known. I've thought about chaplaincy for a long, long time. In ten years, it has never been nudged off of my List of Things to Do Before I Die. And so now, at long last, I'm doing it. And I am feeling a lot like I've felt at the start of those marathons and trail runs. What if I fall? What if it's too hard? What if I burn out? What if everyone else is more prepared or better than me? And what the hell am I doing?

I think I know what I'm doing. I think I know what I've signed up for and what I'm jumping into. And I think I might have a clue as to what awaits on the road ahead. I've read about it, talked about it, looked it up online and learned about it. I've even daydreamed about it and visualized it. I've trained for it. But just like I never really knew what I was in for when I signed up for a new distance or new kind of run, I don't really know what I'm in for on this path that lies ahead. Smooth, rolling hills? Grueling dirt paths and muddy trails? Breathtaking vistas? Will the route be clearly marked? Will I get lost? Will I stumble? Will I fall? Will I surprise myself with my own strength and grit? Will I smile at those near me and be cheered along by the quiet kindness of strangers and companions along the way? 

I don't know, and the mystery of what will be is both nerve-racking and exciting. I try not to let myself think about stumbling and falling, feeling tired or bruised or simply unable to keep going. Instead I try concentrating on the beauty that can be found within the mystery of the unknown, the possibilities that await, and the story that is mine to write as I begin this new journey.

When I ran that first trail run a few years ago I was naively unaware of how hard it would be. Had I known the limits to which I'd have to push myself, I probably would have spent a very boring hour on a Stairmaster at the gym instead. But I would have missed out, and I would have missed out immensely - on the cameraderie, the exhiliration, the fun and the beauty of simply running through the woods on a beautiful Saturday morning. I'd have missed out on the adventure, the excitement, and the challenge of doing something new, something different and something unknown. I'd have missed out on the chance to open a new door in my life and discover a new passion, one that would bring me tremendous joy and happiness. Oh yeah, and I would have missed out on the free snacks and ugly race shirts, too. ;)

Somewhere between what was and what will be

Not being able to run is not easy for me. Running has been there for me and with me for most of my adult life. It's been part of my identity for so long that I feel a little lost without it. It's my recreation, my retreat, my social life, my therapy, my church, and my exercise. It's been with me through everything - sickness, breakups, travel, grief, elation, work issues, big decisions, happiness, sadness. Everything. Without it, I feel just a little less me. And believe me, thirty minutes on the stationery bike watching Regis and Kathy Lee doesn't hold a candle to a quiet, early morning run as the sun peers over the Boston skyline.

Only one month ago I left the job I had for three years and ended a career I had for almost ten years, enjoyed three whole days off, and started my new career as a poor grad student. My head hurts from how fast this massive change has occurred, even though the process leading up to it took over ten years. I still haven't fully grasped the transition from what was to what is. Was I driving to a job in an office, wearing a suit and stopping at Starbucks just three weeks ago? Was I sitting in front of a computer and going to meetings a month ago? 

I still wake up early and go to the gym because it's one of few remnants of structured routine in my new life. (My new life?!) I figured I'd need something familiar to hold on to during the big transition from worker bee to student. My a.m. workouts have always helped me start the day with energy and at least a little bit of clarity. No matter where I am and what's going on, no matter how much or little I've slept, for most of the weekday mornings over the past 17 years, I've gotten up relatively early and put on my sweats, either for a gym workout or a run.

But these days when I get home from the gym, I don't stand in front of my closet and pick out a nice, conservative outfit and matching shoes and jewelry. I grab whatever's clean, comfortable, and won't look dorky when I ride my bike to school (lesson learned: skirts do not pass this test, even if they are khaki). In a relatively short time, I have become partial towards t-shirts, cargo pants, jeans, sneakers, and clogs. Keeping in mind that it'll be cool outside, but biking will warm me up, but then the classrooms are freezing, I have taken to heart that old Italian advice about dressing "like an onion", i.e., many layers that can be peeled off as necessary.

I take a quick shower, but I don't bother blow-drying my hair because it'll be pulled into a ponytail and squashed under a bike helmet. I used to carefully apply my makeup, but now I just slap on sunscreen and mascara. My morning routine of checking email and online news while drinking strong coffee remains the same, only now I have more time to do that since I'm not fussing over my hair and clothes. (So far no one seems to care that I look like a homeless person....). But that's where what little is left of my old routine ends. 

Instead of wobbling to my car in high heels, I grab my backpack (no more purse) and helmet and wheel my bike outside. It takes me 15 minutes to bike to campus, as opposed to 30 to drive to my old job. I don't stop at Starbucks. I don't sit in traffic. I don't chat on the phone (lesson #2 - chatting on cell phone while biking = bad idea). I don't pull into a parking space in front of an office. But the biggest difference is that I don't arrive where I'm going with apprehension or a sense of unease. A little sweaty from riding uphill, yes. Apprehensive and uneasy, no. I park and lock my bike and head to class, knowing that for the next 3.5 hours I need to be completely ON. No daydreaming, no procrastinating, no time-wasting...all of which I indulged in more than a little at work. The big difference is that here, in class, I don't want to day dream. I want to absorb everything. I want to listen and I want to learn.

In these three short weeks of summer school, I've often caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror or glass door and thought, "Who is that?" Sometimes I barely recognize the person walking around campus in jeans and a t-shirt, heading to the library or bookstore. I don't know who it is, because the girl I know identified as a fundraiser, a university employee, a runner, and an independent person with a paycheck. I used to get up early and pound out 7 miles before work and not think twice about buying a plane ticket to visit a friend across the country or halfway around the world. I didn't love my job, but it was a big part of my life and even my unhappiness in it created a certain identity. Pretty amazing how if you're miserable with something for long enough, that misery just becomes part of who you are and how you see yourself. I see myself very differently now, but the image isn't yet entirely clear. I know what I was and I'm pretty sure I know what I will be, but right now I'm still adjusting to what I am.

Three weeks into summer school and thinking a lot about the months and the two years ahead, my identity is a concept very much in flux. I think about who I was (happy runner, miserable fundraiser, etc.), who I've become in a very short period of time (happy student, miserable non-runner), and who I am becoming (a chaplain...who runs!). There is an eventual goal, but a lot of who and what I will become is still a mystery to me. For now, I am doing my best to balance on this wobbly bridge between what was and what will be, focusing on what is.

Planting seeds

Find the seed at the bottom of your heart and bring forth a flower. 

- Shigenori Kameoka

It's gonna take way more than this morning's six mile run to process where I am right now. It's been such a long, long path to get here, and the path ahead will be longer still. There will be rocks and there will be hills along the way, but it's gonna be a beautiful run.

As I was out running this morning, discovering new side streets in the neighborhood where I've lived for over five years, I started thinking about the many, many, many people, conversations, events, occasions, places, challenges, relationships, and teeny tiny fleeting moments that led me here. It was ten years ago that I first learned about chaplaincy, that I first began to understand what a chaplain does, and that I had that very first, primitive, embryonic notion that I wanted to do it. It took me ten years to finally start this journey towards becoming a chaplain, but I know with all my heart that it could not have possibly started any earlier. It was not time; I was not ready.

There were so many things that led me here - a lot of them were joyful, heart-opening discoveries, but let's be honest, just as many if not more of the things that led me here were painful and difficult. I have shed more than a few tears along the way, some of joy, some of sorrow. It wasn't until this morning's run that I had the mental image of all these things - beautiful, sad, happy - fitting together like puzzle pieces. And now, though the puzzle is not complete, the picture is a little more clear. The finished product is vaguely visible.

All of these little things I remember and wonder if, at the time, I knew how important they would be on this journey. I wonder if I had any idea when I experienced these things that they'd ultimately lead me to leave my job and career and go after something that I didn't just want to do, but felt called to do. Training to be a hospice volunteer, working with poor kids in Jamaica, writing in a journal, church searching for 16 years, dating an addict, traveling all over the world, fundraising, getting sick and being hospitalized three times, moving abroad, discovering trail running, talking to strangers on airplanes, working at a place I loved and doing a job I did not love, volunteering in a prison, joining a public speaking group and learning to give speeches, watching my grandmother die,becoming an aunt to the most beautiful kids on earth, learning to pray, finding yoga, taking a drum class, planting a garden, going on retreats, being pushed and pulled out of my comfort zone.... Did I have any idea when a pilot struck up a conversation with me before a flight back from LA that he was in school to be a pastor, and that just a few weeks later I'd apply to a degree program that would eventually make me a chaplain? And maybe more to the point, did he have any idea that our brief conversation would have such a life-changing impact on me? When I could barely put myself back together after breaking up with my boyfriend, the addict, did I have any idea that someday that understanding of addiction might actually be helpful in my career? Did I ever think during my 16 years of church searching that those days would lead me not only to a church but to a career?

One of the most amazingly influential aspects of this journey is the amount of support and encouragement I experienced, often times from people I didn't even know that well. For the majority of the past ten years, I did not tell a soul that chaplaincy was something I wanted to do. Not my parents, not my sisters, not my best friends. For about nine years, the only people who knew were my old roommate and my ex boyfriend. And then, recently, I started sharing this with more people. Not everyone, just a select few. And they believed in me. They believed that I could do this, and that I'd be good at it. A lot of friends, colleagues, and peers have believed in me and my abilities way more than I've believed in myself. 

So now that I'm on this path, I realize that we sometimes - often times - have no idea how these seeds will grow. Everything we do, everyone we meet, everywhere we go...all of these moments and experiences carry us forward and on to the next thing. And even if we have no idea what that next thing may be, we're already preparing for it. And the world is already preparing us for it.

So you wanna be a chaplain?

In the past few days, I interviewed for and got offered a great job, turned down that great job, decided to go to grad school full-time, and quit the job I've had for over three years. So how'd all that happen? How'd I get here? I mean how'd I get here, as in me, grad school, chaplaincy, and two impending years of eating Ramen noodles and hanging out in the library.

It's been a long, long LONG path. (Did I mention it's been a long path?) It has taken me literally ten years to pursue something that has been in my heart for that long, and I guess the reason I'm finally pursuing it is because it's consistently and constantly been in my heart. At some times I've been more aware than at other times, but it's been there all along nonetheless.

Ten years ago I worked in fundraising at the Dana-Farber. It was my first real job after grad school, I liked it and I was good at it. The work felt rewarding, especially when I stepped back and considered the 'big picture'. But above all, raising money to help find a cure for cancer? Hard to top that for motivation...

Somewhere along the line - and I don't even remember when or how - my path led me to Helena, the hospital chaplain intern, and we became friends. Like me, she was in her 20's and we shared a love of running by the Charles River and studying Italian. We even organized a summer class for a bunch of friends to take Italian together. The classes were often followed by drinks and chit-chat at a nearby bar and, though the conversations were never too deep, the more I learned about Helena's job, the more intrigued I became.

In one of those now-or-never moments, I eventually turned down a promotion at the Dana-Farber and left my job there to teach English in Italy. No one - family, friends, colleagues, etc. - really knew about my interest in Chaplaincy, though during my time in Italy I often thought about it when I went out running or talked with my American roommate. Because of our shared interest in many things spiritual and faith-related, I confided my interest in Chaplaincy to Gina and we revisited the topic on many occasions, but it remained more of a "yeah, someday" kind of thing. And yet, every single time I thought about what I ultimately wanted to do with my life, becoming a Chaplain was on the list. It simply never moved, and neither did I.

Fast forward a few years. I'm home after two years in Italy and I'm working for a non-profit that raises money for cancer research and patient care. We interact with patients and their families on a daily basis, and the work is emotionally exhausting. In the course of a few short months, five of the organization's well-known volunteers are diagnosed with cancer or experience a relapse. One of them is my ex-boyfriend. And yet, no one - NO ONE - addresses how this might affect us personally, spiritually, or emotionally. I seek understanding and support and find none.

At one point when I was working with the non-profit, I was hospitalized for a week due to ulcerative colitis (which I've had since I was 20). Alone in my hospital room with one window that faced a brick wall, I read and watched tv, spent time with my family and friends who visited, and struck up conversations with just about anyone who entered the room. (Even the janitor who didn't speak English..."Hablas ingles?? Por favor??") One afternoon, the Chaplain came in. He was close to my age, maybe in his 20's. He introduced himself, explained his role at the hospital, and asked if I had any questions or anything I'd like to talk about. I think he might have been anticipating a question like, "Why does God allow physical suffering?", "If I don't atone for my sins before I die, can I still get to Heaven?", or "Did bad karma land me in this shithole?" He waited for my reply. "Uh yeah..." I asked, "Could you pull up a chair for a while and tell me about Divinity School?". (He did.)

Throughout my travels and my professional career, I've also been on a faith journey and a discernment of beliefs. It has at many times been lonely, frustrating, and exhausting as I endeavored to find a church where I felt at home and a faith I could call my own. I was away from the Catholic Church for over 16 years, most of which time I spent 'church searching' and looking for someplace where I could go because I wanted to and not because I felt I should. A Catholic Church was the last place I thought I'd find that, but I did.

When I was out running early one morning, I ran by St. Ignatius in Chestnut Hill. Haven't been there yet, I thought. So I went to Sunday mass there and I liked it. I kept coming back, and I met people I liked. I went on a service trip to Jamaica and it changed my life. I learned more about Ignatian Spirituality and the Jesuits, and I liked that, too. At last, when I had stopped looking, I found what I was seeking all along.

At St. Ignatius I learned about Discernment, or the process of listening to what God is calling a person to do. Is one's vocation priesthood (no)? Married life (maybe)? Single life (Lord, I hope note)? Parenthood? Education? I knew even before asking myself these questions that what I was doing professionally was definitely not my calling.

The Jesuits, as I learned, are very much about introspection, reflection, education, and service. The minute I understood that, I knew I was home. Introspection is practically my middle name! Service? I like service!

As I put more attention towards listening to God and discerning my own calling, things began coming together. That word 'chaplaincy' kept popping up, and Divinity School was still on my list of Things To Do Before I Die. Either I was more open to the people and conversations that seemed to keep coming my way, or the right people kept showing up on my path at the right time. From the most unlikely and surprising sources, I found encouragement, support, and validation. Sometimes it was simply the right words at the right time, and sometimes it was a situation that seemed too obvious to ignore. Whatever it was, doing nothing was no longer an option.

I decided that Spring '09 would be the time for information-gathering and experiencing, and if after that I decided that Divinity School could be crossed off my list, then I'd do exactly that, I'd move on and I would no longer even think about it. If it stayed on the list, it was time to do something. I once saw a movie about historian Howard Zinn entitled, "You Can't Stand Still on a Moving Train". That's exactly how I felt.

Over the course of a few months, I took a class at Harvard Divinity School, met weekly with a Spiritual Director and went on a retreat. My colleague and I applied to present at a work-related conference and got selected. I had no idea at the time, but the two-day retreat and the conference preparation would ultimately be two of the most influential and guiding factors in my decision to apply to the School of Theology and Ministry at BC.

On the retreat in mid-February, I spent a lot of time alone and in contemplation, wondering what my calling was, how I would hear it and how I would get there. Divinity School kept coming into my mind, but an intense 3+ year program didn't seem like the right thing for me right now. To be honest, the prospect was completely overwhelming.

On the second morning of the retreat, as I made my way to the dining room for some caffeine, one of my acquaintances from Church approached me and placed a hang on my shoulder. "Alyssa! You don't have to go to Divinity School!!" Trudy seemed very excited about this and I wasn't yet sure why...I'd told her about my interest in Chaplaincy a while back but had kinda forgotten. She told me that BC had an MA in Pastoral Ministry and that a lot of people use the program as a path to Chaplaincy. Some students went full time and some went part time, and the student body was diverse in age, experience, and intention. And thus...I understood her excitement. I thanked her and shuffled off to get my coffee, but what Trudy said stayed in my mind. A seed had been planted, an idea awakened...

A week or so later, while working on the conference presentation after work with my colleague George, I confided in him how unhappy I was at work and that I didn't feel like my current job was my calling. George is a person of tremendous faith, and when he asked me what I really wanted to do with my life, I spilled my guts. I told him that I wanted to be a Chaplain, and that I'd wanted to do so for the past ten years.

The thing about George, I had learned by working with him and talking with him, is that he's academically and professionally accomplished and not someone I'd classify as a dreamer, but he knows when a decision needs to be made with the heart vs. with the brain, and he told me to do just that. "Alyssa, you make the little decisions with your head, and the big decisions with your heart. Have you visited BC? When does summer session start? Work backwards from that date - what do you need to do now to be at the first day of summer session?" Wow, was it that simple?

After a few phone calls to Admissions at BC, I got myself an appointment with the Dean of Admissions. I studied the program website and prepared my questions, and on Wednesday, March 18, 2009, I met with the Dean at his office, just a mile from my home and in a building I must have walked by a hundred times without ever paying any attention to it. When I left the Dean's office, I knew that this was it.

Within a week I had my transcripts and application completed, my recommendations spoken for, and my essay printed out. I carefully put everything together and walked it over to the post office. I even remember telling the postman that my future was in that envelope.

And then I waited. And waited. And waited. A month later Admissions called me with the great news that not only had I been accepted, but that I had been granted a significant amount of financial aid.

In the meantime, I was offered another job and 95% of me really wanted to take it. It would be a great job working with an amazing team, and it would keep me at Fletcher. Theoretically, I could work full-time and go to school part-time. A small part of me cursed being offered the job at all because it made my decision harder - I wanted both, but I knew in my heart that I couldn't have both. And then I had this revelation: I had to choose. I had to actively choose Option A or Option B. I couldn't just go with one plan because the other one didn't work out. If I hadn't been offered the job, I would have gone to school full-time because it was my back-up plan.

So I turned down the job. It was hard, but it was the right thing for me to do. When I told my boss I was leaving, I think we both felt relieved to acknowledge after 18 months of tense conversations that fundraising was not my gig. BC was, and that's where I'm headed.

Last night I shared the big news with my neighbors and friends, Erin & Jess. Jess cracked open a bottle of prosecco and we toasted my big decision. As we sat around her kitchen counter and I shared the whole long tale of how I made this choice, we also toasted the many, many people who helped me get to this point, whether they knew it or not.
Cheers to them, and may I someday return the life-changing favor.

Pineland Farms Trail Run - 15.5 Miles of FUN

15.5 mile trail run. Not really something I thought I could do, but there must have been one crazy part of me that thought it was remotely possible, because I signed up and got two friends to jump on the Insanity Bandwagon with me.

We stayed in York on Saturday night - took it easy, got dinner stuff at Hannaford's, and hit the hay early. Sunday morning we were up by 7. After toast and coffee, we piled into the car for the drive up to New Gloucester. Though we all had pre-race nerves (can't get rid of those babies, no matter how many races we've run), we laughed and talked the whole way North, listening to Rocky's Theme and Chariots of Fire to get us motivated.

Going to races with my friends has proven to be one of the strongest bonding experiences I've known - we talk about everything (believe me, once you get past the subject of chafing it's open season...) and encourage each other. We share sunscreen, gummi bears and extra layers of clothing. And - quite possibly because we know we don't have even a remote shot at winning - we're not competitive with each other. We enjoy each other's company and have fun once the starting gun goes off. And when it's a crappy race or an off day, we keep each other going.

After about 45 minutes of heading North on 95, we got to Portland and made our way to New Gloucester, a quiet little town with one stoplight and a lot of rolling hills. We got to the YMCA complex, which is where the race began, and picked up our numbers and race shirts. For posterity, we each purchased a pint glass with a big red tractor (the race logo) on it, too.

Back at the car, we pinned on our race numbers and then each proceeded to apply layers upon layers of sunscreen, Body Glide, bug spray, and muscle rub. By the time I was done coating myself with all that stuff, I thought I might be able to just slide across the Finish Line. I stashed a few pieces of candy (coffee-flavored Nips...I know, I know, I'm the only person under age 85 who likes them) in my pocket for the run and off we went to the Start Line.

It was a little nerve-racking to see all the lanky, hard-bodied, spandex-clad athletes lolling around as we waited for the 25K start. The 50K and 50M races had started hours earlier and, as we waited around for the 25K start, we got to watch some of the longer distance runners come through their first course loop. Given the distances they were running, they really didn't look too detroyed. I was amazed by this later in the race, too, as the 25K course loop connected with the 50K and 50M loop and I talked with a few of the runners. Not only were they not cursing the very ground on which they ran, they actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. Just out for a Sunday morning run in the country....for 13 hours....

Our starting time drew closer and we lined ourselves up along with 247 of our cloests 25K running buddies. The race director went over course logistics and proceeded to cut right to the chase by starting us off with, "Ready...GO!" (Who needs, "on your mark, get set...."?)

We were off. We ran across a small field and parking lot and directly into the pine woods. The sky was grey and overcast, the air was cool and humid. I didn't bring an ipod on this run and all I could think of was "15.5 miles with NO MUSIC." That is a LOT of thinking time, my friends.

I lost my friends in the crowd almost immediately, but we'd agreed to run our own paces and meet up at the finish line, so there I was, alone with my thoughts, my breathing, and a whole lotta fields and hills ahead of me. This was my longest trail run ever and I'd be lying if I said I didn't have any doubts about finishing it in respectable condition. I knew I could finish it, but I also knew that I didn't want to crawl across the finish line on blistered hands and knees long after everyone else had packed up and gone home.

The scenery kept me engaged and the terrain was gentle enough that I didn't need to constantly monitor my footing. Unlike other trail runs, this one didn't have major rocks, roots, logs or stream crossings. No scrambling around boulders or jumping over fallen trees, and I managed to have only one close call with a face plant. The course alternated between dirt paths that zig-zagged through pine groves and grassy trails that wound through hilly farmland. Running through the woods, I felt pines cones crunching beneath my feet and listened to leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. As the course took us through the fields and along tractor paths, long, green grass rustled and brushed at my ankles. The panorama was breathtaking. Rolling green hills, cows, white post-beam fences, and acres upon acres of nature. As far as the eye could see, NATURE. It was a nice change from fighting smog as I run through the streets of Boston.

BREATHE, I reminded myself. Breathe. I drew the fresh air in through my nose, letting the cool oxygen fill my lungs, expand my chest and open my entire rib cage. I released my breath, letting it cleanse my exhalation and clear out my mind. Let the breath center me and recharge me, I told myself. Let the breath carry me. JUST BREATHE.

It was muggy, despite the cloud cover and occasional cool breeze. My body heated up quickly and I was grateful that my friends had convinced me to make the last minute change from long running pants to shorts. My dri-fit shirt was damp with sweat and I could taste salt on my lips and feel it beginning to stick to my face. Other than that, my body felt good. No aches or pains, no major muscle fatigue, no headache. It just felt good to be outside, running over hills and through big grassy fields, breathing, thinking, not thinking, reflecting, praying, letting my mind wander.

Trying not to think about miles or kilometers, I kept going. I didn't really want to know how fast (or slow) I was going or how many miles I'd completed (or had left). I just wanted to get into my rhythm and stay there for 15 miles, enjoy the run and finish it in one piece. When I found myself running next to a woman anxiously riveted to the numbers on her watch, I felt like tripping her every time she announced the miles and pace. "Okay, just hit 5K! Only 20K left! On track for a 2:30 finish!" she barked out to everyone within earshot. (Note to runners: If you want to track your pace, that's cool, but keep it to yourself, okay? Hey, I pray when I run but you don't hear me talking to God, do you?)

The race definitely felt long, no question about it. Hours passed. I thought of the things I could do in this time frame: watch a movie, cook a meal, drive to Western Massachusetts. It was a Sunday morning and I considered what I might be doing had I not been trudging along a rural dirt path....hanging out in my sweats at my kitchen counter, newspaper and very large cup of coffee at hand? The alternatives definitely held some appeal, but there was no where I'd have rather been in that very moment than getting my sneakers dirty on this run.

The miles passed and every 5K a sign indicated how far we'd come. When I finally got to the 20K sign I actually turned around and gave a big, dorky smile and double-thumbs up to the guy behind me (a complete stranger) because I was so happy. "20K!! Isn't that awesome?!?" Yeah, you might say the Runner's High had kicked in. 5K left, I told myself. 5K. That's like a quick morning workout on the treadmill. 30 minutes or less and I'm done. A few more miles and I'm there. Trail running is a little different for me, though, and all bets are off as far as pacing goes. A 5K could take an hour. It didn't matter, though. We were in the home stretch. The finish line and organic gelato awaited.

Early on in the race, I overheard someone say that the last 5K was the hardest. Truer words were never spoken. The path became a labyrinth, zig-zagging around trees and switchbacking through what felt like the same little woodsy area. I was, for the most part, alone. The solitude didn't bother me - actually, I really liked it - but my feet ached and my toes begged for a cold bath and flip-flops. I was so slicked up with sweat, sunscreen, dirt, Body Glide, bug spray and spilled Gatorade that when a gentle drizzle began to fall I just rubbed the raindrops on my arms and let the precipitation cool me off.

The Home Stretch. A few times I heard music and voices and thought the finish line must be right around the corner, but it wasn't until I caught a peek through the woods and saw the very field where the adventure had started hours ago that I knew THIS. WAS. IT. I felt that momentary conflict of wanting it to be over (finally!) and not really wanting it to end. Part of me (the physical part) just wanted to get something to drink, walk out the kinks in my legs and back, and eventually take a shower and put on sweats. But the emotional part of me didn't want this experience to end. It felt good, it felt exhilirating, and I was having fun. The timer above the finish line glowed and ticked off minutes and seconds. When I was close enough to read it, I gave it everything I had left in me to make it in under 2:50. Finishing time - 2:49 and a few miliseconds.

How can I describe running 15.5 miles on rural trails? It made me feel strong, healthy, empowered and more than a little bit bad-ass. If I can do this, I can do anything. So what's next?

11.5 much needed miles

Perfect day for running. Awoke to the sound of rain, but by the time I got up, had some coffee, and read the paper the rain had stopped and given way to cool, grey skies and a gentle breeze. I headed out intending to do 10 miles in preparation for next weekend, and also just to get myself back into the rhythm of a longer run, both physically and mentally. A few hours alone with my thoughts can be (and often is) a very good thing, but can also prove a bit of a challenge.

I ran up Center St. and over to Comm. Ave., hitting auto-pilot much more quickly than I thought I would and enjoying the rolling terrain of Heartbreak Hill. Yes, enjoying it. At times I wasn't even fully conscious of trying to run or making myself run; it just happened on its own. My mind was engaged with other things - my music, my thoughts, my week.

I thought about so many things while I was out running today. Work. Boys. My family. My friends. My future. My life. I'm at this point of decision-making, and it has not been entirely easy. Nor should it be, because if it were easy...well, where would the challenge be?

For now, I am taking life as it comes. Day by day, mile by mile. Enjoying the journey despite a few little aches and pains and certain of some exciting achievements of which I will be proud.

Getting Back Into a Rhythm

The thing with running, for me anyhow, is that it doesn't lie. Ever. It accepts me as I am, wherever I am, and allows me to look into the mirror and clearly see my mind, body, and spirit. Looking past the sweat and the rosy cheeks, I see what I'm made of and where I've been. And there's no hiding from what I see, because it'll tell me exactly what I need to do.

Running knows when I haven't slept enough, when I've spent too much time in the car or on a plane, when I've been stressed, and when I've made too many meals of ice cream and cookies. Running knows when I'm tired, when I have something on my mind, and when my physical and emotional energy is low. It knows when I'm charged up and energized, when I've slept enough and eaten well, when I've taken care of myself. I know I will get out of running what I put into it...there are no corners to be cut and no quick fixes. Ultimately, what I do is reflected in the moments spent pounding the pavement (or trails).

~

For the past two weeks I was on vacation in Italy, where I lived from 2001 - 2003. Going back was a nostalgic journey. My first day in Carpi I ventured out for a run and felt like I'd never left, even though I've been home for almost six years. Running along the quiet, pancake-flat roads outside the center of town, I remembered all of those mornings when I did the very same thing. It's different to go back as a visitor, knowing that I'll only run a handful of times before leaving and returning to my own neighborhood, my own home, and my own familiar sidewalks. I inhaled the fresh air and looked up at the massive sky - for some reason it looks bigger there. I ran along dirt roads, past farmhouses and fields and gardens. Getting out there felt good - it allowed my spirit to expand and my body to relax after a few stressful weeks and a long trip. Even as it rained and I got soaked, I felt renewed, as if the rain was washing away all that crap I carried around with me. Running somehow allows the spirit and energy to expand into whatever space it's given, and in Italy I was given a lot.

Finally Spring

Spring is here at last, after a long, long winter. When I went out for a run this morning I realized what a metaphor that is for my life right now. It's so obvious it's almost cliche.

My running buddy never showed up this morning, and in a way I was grateful because it allowed me the solitude of running alone. There's been so much on my mind the past few weeks and months that the prospect of making small talk before 6 a.m. wasn't all that attractive, and being released from this obligation gave me a sense of relief.

The sun was rising - glowing, burning orange - and the sky was clearing as I headed up Washington Street towards Brighton Center. It felt so incredibly good to be running outside in the fresh air, still damp from yesterday's rain. I settled into my rhythm quickly and let myself get absorbed by my music and the sounds of my neighborhood waking up.

I ran up Chestnut Hill Ave. and around Comm. Ave, letting sidestreets pull me in and allowing myself to discover or rediscover places I've overlooked. I eventually returned to my favorite run up Comm. Ave and past BC, but this time it was different. Although I've been running this route for a few years, this morning was the first time I had that distinct feeling of belonging to it as much as it belongs to me. Running by STM was almost a little emotional, and I was reminded that this is the place that is about to change the direction of my life. This is the place where I will spend many days and possibly many nights, and the place where my new career will be shaped, directed, and made real. My life is changing. It has taken me over ten years to make this decision and to make it happen, but now it's finally happening. Although I'm still somewhat in a state of disbelief, the journey I am about to begin just feels right. It's been a long time since anything felt that way.

I continued past BC and ran up one of my favorite sidestreets, a nice, big tree-lined hill with beautiful homes and an impressive view of Boston. It felt good to push myself, and it felt even better to crunch over the wet gravel and pine needles at the very end of the hill, where the dead-end street tapers off into conservation land. I ran briefly into the woods, inhaling the clean air and feeling perfectly peaceful, strong, and refreshed.

As Spring has made its much-awaited arrival to Boston, it has finally come to my life, too. As signs of life become visible in our natural surroundings, they are appearing in my heart and mind as well. I have been dormant and, in several respects, hopeless, for a long time. Getting admitted to STM has reawakened my hopes. Good things happen, life moves forward, positive changes will come if we are patient. I try to remind myself that this applies to all aspects of my life, as I'm still waiting on another decision, but for now...one thing at a time.

Boston Tune Up 15K, Upton, MA 1:28:27

I couldn't sleep last night for a variety of reasons - up til all hours reading and trying to watch a movie, slept for what felt like ten minutes, then up again at 3 a.m. checking email. I have a lot on my mind these days...too many decisions that fall into what one might call the "adult life choices" category. One decision I don't want to make - I wish it weren't even an option - and the other will eventually feel exciting, but for now just feels a little stressful.

Despite the lack of sleep, I needed to run today. I needed to be with my friends and on my own, finding my rhythm on the pavement, mile after mile. I needed to not simply run, but for a little while, run away. Sometimes escaping is an option, even if for only a short while.

My friends came over before 8 a.m. and we had some coffee before piling into the car and hitting the Pike West. My worries eased as we chattered away the whole car ride out to Upton. I was about to run a race and I was with My People. Everything would be fine.

The race was hilly. Made Heartbreak Hill look like a speed bump. I started out faster than I probably should have (it was an incredible fast-paced field overall) and had several people pass me, but as I settled into my groove and listened to my music, I felt all right. Nothing ached, nothing hurt. I turned over thoughts in my mind and tried to problem-solve. What should I say? What should I do? As I thought over my options, none of them seemed easy and I felt a little sad that life gets this complicated as an adult. Maybe this is why I enjoy hanging out with my nephew so much - the biggest decision is fruit-a-bu snacks or Goldfish.

I kept running and let my mind wander and drift. We pounded over hills, past farms, and down quiet streets. The sky was cloudy and grey, and it was chilly. The miles passed one by one, and soon I was past the halfway point. One mile at a time, I told myself.

I finished soon enough, and it felt great. I was happy with my time, but more than that, just happy.

Sunday, 8 March 2009

First spring-like day of the year. Ran in shorts. Six miles, letting my mind wander as I avoided potholes, mud puddles, and heaps of melting snow.

What is balance? I've been thinking about this for approximately the past 8 months, since my proposal for a session on work-life balance got accepted for an upcoming conference. Apparently there was some interest in my idea - they asked me to present twice. Given that I submitted the proposal ten minutes before the final deadline and didn't really think it would get chosen, I was stunned to learn they wanted me to present it twice. There seems to be some interest in this work-life balance thing...

It got me to thinking about the concept of balance more than ever before. I started asking friends and colleagues and strangers about it. Overwhelmingly, the response I got when I asked people what they do to maintain balance was, "don't ask me, I'm the worst person to ask about that." No one seemed to have a solution or an answer or even a suggestion. Very few people even felt like they could ever attain a balance.

I thought I knew what I was doing when I submitted my proposal. I had this great presentation in mind and I could just visualize myself at the front of the room, encouraging everyone to take a deep breath and think about how to prepare for and decompress from a stressful day of meetings. I imagined myself making suggestions for managing a busy travel schedule. Then the economy tanked and my job changed dramatically. I worked more and felt satisfied less. My social life suffered. I noticed new grey hairs. Who am I to present a session on work-life balance?

Two days ago when I was driving home from work way later than I would have liked, I had this realization. Is there such a thing as work-life balance? Can we ever feel fully satisfied in every aspect of our lives, or will something always be lacking? Is it possible to feel completely fulfilled both personally and professionally, or does one of those succeed at the expense of the other? I thought about how fulfilled I felt in my own personal life, and how frustrated I felt professionally. And I'm starting to think that work-life balance might just be the acceptance of imbalance.

Coffee + Run + Yoga on the Beach = ahhhhh

I woke up to the smell of strong coffee and the sound of....nothing. The quiet enveloped me as morning sun shined through the skylights. Coffee, quiet, sleeping past 6 a.m.....I must be in Maine.

After a few cups of coffee and a slice of toast, I forced myself to do a little reading for class (this week's book is nowhere near as compelling as last week's) before heading out for a run. I'd put on my running clothes as soon as I woke up, so there'd be no bailing out on this one.

The interesting thing about running is that almost every time I head out, I feel like I'm doing it for the first time. I have that stupid hesitation of, "what if I can't even run a mile?", followed by settling into a familiar rhythm, followed by that good old feeling of exhiliration and a racing heart. It baffles me that I've been doing this for 13 years and it still so often feels new to me.

It was pretty cold this morning and my fingers were numb. The wind drew tears from my eyes and my nose felt frozen. I ran down Long Sands Road, now almost desolate and devoid of beach goers and surfers but for a few hearty, down-jacketed walkers braving the icy shoreline. Last time I ran along this stretch it was August, sunny, and hot. The beach was packed with surfers and families and leather-colored retirees who'd been there since May. You could barely cross the street, let alone find a spot on the sand. Today, in sharp contrast, you could have sat in the middle of the street, undisturbed for hours. The beach was barren, grey and quiet. The overwhelming feeling was one of solitude.

As I kept running I thought about the good fortune we have in New England, in that we are able to experience seasons. They give us structure and a demarcation of time, a cyclical sense of life moving forward, but coming back to those same familiar points each year. And it's not just a matter of putting up or taking down Christmas decorations or shoveling snow; it's the sensuous experience of smelling the salty summer air or crisp autumn wind, hearing rustling leaves or ice crunching beneath our feet, tasting the first ice cream of summer or the first hot chocolate of winter, and feeling scratchy woolen sweaters, stretchy bathing suits, rubbery flip-flops, or cozy scarves and mittens. The whole body and mind experience the changes in season, and we don't have the chance to become complacent with one before we're awaiting the next.

Back on the beach after running five miles and several hills, I had warmed up significantly. There were a few people walking along the sand, and an almost silent comeraderie among us as we inhaled the refreshing cold air and savored the serene horizon of the Atlantic. My mind felt clear and peaceful, my body felt energized and strong, and my spirit felt renewed. Moreover, these feelings occured synergistically, and I was acutely aware of the harmony of mind, body and spirit. To me, this is the closest thing to Heaven on Earth.

On Meditation, Friendship, & Reflection

It's been almost a full month since my last "real" run. Struggling through a few miles on the treadmill each morning has become my pathetic routine, and I barely remember a time when I woke up, piled on several layers of fleece, and actually ran for an hour or more along the dark, icy, snowy streets of Boston. But as I finished off a fun Saturday night with friends and headed home to bed last night, I knew I'd be running the today.

This morning - a clear, wintry Sunday morning - brought spring-like weather and dressing for an outdoor run felt completely natural to me, like I hadn't missed a day. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, it was like being in the embrace of a long-lost friend. That feeling never goes away.

So much to think about as I headed towards the hills of Newton and enjoyed the sunshine glaring off the melting snow. This process of "discernment" through which I am traveling is at times exciting and at most other times exhausting, overwhelming, and totally confusing. Guess what I have figured out so far? I don't know what I want to be when I grow up!

In the Christian sense, Discernment (with a capital "D") is a term used to describe the process of finding God's will for one's life, in particular, married or single life, religious or secular life. In the broader sense, it is the act of seeking insight and understanding, and, I might add, purpose. This seems to me like something anyone can do, whether they are spiritually inclined or not, whether they believe in God and God's will or not. For me, the process of discernment has been a journey of discovery and a time of trying to figure out what it is I am "called" to do or "meant" to do. What is it that is in my heart to do? What kind of work or life will bring me happiness and satisfaction and joy? I don't mean ease, I mean profound joy.

It is said that sometimes not getting an answer is your answer, and much of my journey has felt like that. As I try to listen to what I'm being called to do, I get frustrated and impatient that there are not clearer signs. Is it to much to ask for a billboard along the Mass Pike that will tell me my purpose in life? ;) I'm finding it a challenge to listen - to God, to the universe, to my heart - and I'm working on that. How do I know what to listen for? How do I know when I'm being "spoken to"?

So I keep searching, and one of the things that I have learned for sure is that it's like casting seeds to the wind. I don't know which of my ideas or connections will take root; the important thing is that I am making these connections and sewing these seeds of ideas, and looking for fertile ground that will nourish and grow my ideas.

What is this fertile ground? Right now, it is the support of my close friends and family, the people who listen to me and nudge me forward, encouraging me to take risks and listen to my instincts. It is the serendipitous conversations with strangers that leave me asking myself something and pondering it for days. It is the meaningful and fleeting connections with people I know, though maybe not well, that awaken an interest in me and push me to learn more.

And there is the dry earth, so to speak...the places where my ideas do not take root, the places where a door closes and an opportunity is lost, the moments when a relationship changes or a possibility withers and I'm aware that whatever it is I was pursuing is not going anywhere. But these moments, though painful, are equally important as those that encourage and inspire me. These moments push me to redirect my path and see what else may lie ahead, knowing that sometimes that can be done only if I let go of what lies behind.

I run 3 miles more than intended - up over Heartbreak Hill, past St. Ignatius, and down Lake Street. It feels like Spring and I'm completely recharged, knowing that what lies ahead can never really be known, and knowing that what lies behind can only be learned from.

Night Running

Night running has never really been my thing. In 13 years of running, I could count on one (gloved) hand how many times I've run after 9 a.m. There's something almost mystical about running in the early morning hours as the city wakes up, and then having the whole day ahead.

Heading home from an all-day meeting yesterday I knew snow was coming. It was 4 p.m. and the snow was rumored to start around 6. Winter twilight approached and I looked forward to a cozy night with books and movies as the snow accumulated outside my window, but even though yesterday was scheduled to be my off-day and I didn't plan to run, something made me want to head straight home, throw on my fleece and thermals, and head out for a short run. Maybe to burn off a little energy before settling into 24 hours of being snow-bound? I figured I'd do a quick run up to Brighton Center and back before it got dark.

The cold air didn't bother me as I stepped outside and, after being in a windowless meeting room all day, the fresh air and winter light felt refreshing and invigorating. The air was brisk as I trotted carefully over the icy sidewalks towards Oak Square; my breath evened out, my mind became clear, and the running reverie began.

Though the sidewalks were covered with weeks worth of frozen slush and snow, my trail shoes braced me and I was careful to guard my center of gravity. The salsa and bossa nova on my ipod seemed ironic as the frozen snow crunched beneath my feet and the cold winter air stung my fingertips. But soon enough I was warmed up, even sweating, and in a groove. Ten minutes became twenty as I ran through Brighton Center and did my little homage to Rocky and blasted up and down the steps of Brighton High School five times. The plan was to turn back at this point, but I wasn't tired. I felt invigorated and recharged and kept running. For the first time in my life, I understood why people like running at dusk. The sky grew purple as the afternoon daylight faded into dusk, and all around me city lights came on, people drove home, streetlights brightened sidewalks, and we all braced for snow.

My thoughts wandered as I reflected on the day I had just spent with people from a planning committee at church, talking about the notion of community building and outreach. We brainstormed and shared ideas and challenged each other's notions as much as our own as we reasoned over what people are seeking, how to reach out to them, and how to be present with and respectful of each person's faith, experience, and journey. As I continued running I recalled individual conversations I'd had with people throughout the day - people quite different from me in many ways - age, stage in life, background, career. But each person listened to me, and every one of them seemed to understand exactly where I was coming from and precisely where I was. As I listened to them I knew that a common thread tied us together, and it was a bond far greater than working together or being the same age. It was enormously comforting to be surrounded by people who 'speak my language', for lack of a better expression.

The more I thought about it, the more I was moved by not just the realization but the profound experience that no matter where we are on the spectrum of faith, career, family, and life, we are all really in this together. We all feel this searching and seeking and yearning to be part of something and to be understood, and when that searching and seeking and yearning is heard or validated or celebrated, it is more powerful than anything.

We all experience joys, sorrows, satisfaction and defeat. Though we may experience these emotions in such different ways, we're human. We laugh, we smile, we cry. We all feel pain and we can all understand happiness. When we are lonely or grieving or lost - and who hasn't been? - we are not really alone. When we are searching and confused and bewildered to the point of tears, we are still not alone. Because this human experience bonds us, and there will always be someone out there who really, really hears you.

An hour later I was approaching my front door. Somehow I'd run six miles. Anything I seemed to have worried about during the week didn't matter that much anymore, and even though I was alone, I knew I was part of something.