Serenity Prayer, Whitney Houston style

Well there's a bridge, and there's a river

That I still must cross

As I'm going on my journey though I might be lost

And there's a road I have to follow, a place I have to go

Well no one told me just how to get there

But when I get there I know

Cause I'm taking it step by step, bit by bit, stone by stone,

Brick by brick, step by step, day by day, mile by mile

And this old road is rough and ruined, so many dangers along the way,

So many burdens might fall upon me, so many troubles that I have to face

But I won't let my spirit fail me, I won't let my spirit go

Until I get to my destination I'm gonna take it slow because I'm makin it

I know you're hurtin, and I know you're blue, but don't let the bad things get to you...

Things seem to build up, layer upon layer upon layer, and it is so easy to feel overwhelmed. I find myself pulled into the worry about tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. As I head out to run on this perfect fall day, I hope that 6 or 7 miles will clear my head and renew my spirit.

I tackle a few hills and let my mind and body meander through the streets of Newton, ogling over the big Victorian houses and pristine gardens and wondering who lives in these mansions and what their lives are like. I run up and down hilly sidestreets, pushing myself up the vertical roads and reminding myself that what goes up usually comes down. As I've learned from a few hilariously grueling races, what goes up doesn't always come down... The houses provide a pretty distraction and a scenic backdrop for my wandering thoughts.

The usual assortment of music is on my ipod and it keeps me going, running through Newton, Brighton, Chestnut Hill, and Brookline. And then Whitney Houston comes on as I am trudging up what feels like the biggest motherfucking hill in the city. Step by step, bit by bit, stone by stone, brick by brick, step by step, day by day, mile by mile. And it occurs to me that this mantra is so appropriate for not only today's run, but my life right now. So much is beyond my control and uncertain. So many things are unknown. How far can I go? How fast can I get there? What lies ahead? How will things work out? And what can I do? The few things that are within my control, I aim to do my best. And the rest...in the wise words of another one of my musical idols, Kenny Rogers, "You gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run." With running, as with life, there is only so much I can control. I can push myself and challenge myself and accept that my course will get tough - maybe tougher than I am prepared for at times - but beyond that, the rest is up to something far greater than myself.

So that's all I can do. Step by step, mile by mile. Don't get too caught up in the future, for it may or may not look anything like I expect. Don't fear the hills, for I will get up them somehow, even if I have to walk.

Twelve miles later I arrive at my front door step, energized by this perspective and the chance to take it step by step. Sometimes that takes you further than you ever imagined possible.

Running is a lot like life

Thoughts on running:
1) Train all you want; sooner or later the race begins.
2) You can be at the front of the pack or the back of the pack, but once the gun goes off you can't hang around at the start line waiting for something to happen.
3) Some runs are good. Some runs suck. Run anyhow.

Thoughts on life:
See above.

Ignorance is Bliss(ters)

Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Had I known what I was getting myself into when I signed up for Sunday's run, I might have backed out. I might have found some really good excuse for staying home, sleeping a little later, and enjoying a few cups of strong coffee over the Sunday paper. But then I wouldn't have known, I wouldn't have experienced, and I wouldn't have enjoyed the ass-kicking that was the Blue Hills Skyline Trail 7.2 Mile run. This rocky, unforgiving, relentless gauntlet of hills, boulders, and steep inclines kicked my ass, but it did not kick my spirit. Actually, it kind of renewed it.

It poured rain Saturday - torrential, Biblically-proportional rains that flooded streets and closed roads. My neighborhood was awash with puddles and small rivers, and the thought of a trail run (or, the thoughts of careening down hills of mud and rocks) wasn't really enticing. It didn't seem like the wisest idea and the notion of bailing out crossed my mind more than a few times. But I'd signed up weeks ago and done my best to train. Moreover, it would be my last run for a long while with my running buddy Sarah, who was scheduled to move two days later, and my first run in a long time with my friend Alex, who I hadn't seen in months. Sarah and I made a plan to check in with each other late Saturday night and re-evaluate the situation. Another check in Sunday morning. When my phone rang at 6 a.m. Sunday, I was awakened by Sarah saying, "it's not raining....", which could only mean one thing: the run was on.

Here is a quote from the guy with last year's course record: "You might think that anything a few miles from downtown Boston can’t be too difficult, but the Skyline has surprised many runners...this run was the most technically challenging run I’ve ever done. It is amazing how much climbing they fit into a nine mile trail in this part of the state that is so very flat. There are 6-7 stone staircases in both directions, and the footing is straight out treacherous over about 16 of the 18 miles. The feeling of crunching a foot between two rocks is all too common on the Skyline Trail, and there are few good places to fall. You will usually end up in a pile of very sharp rocks."

Terrified? Me? Yes. I thought about staying home, but knew if I did so I'd probably never forgive myself. And despite my anxiety about the insanity of embarking on such a treacherous run, I wanted to see my friends, spend time outdoors, and see if I could actually do this run. The doubting part of my ego questioned why I'd want to do the run, and what made me think I could even come close to competing in a field of lanky, speedy, agile runners. I imagined myself crossing the finish line - covered in mud, poison ivy, and various scrapes, bruises, and gashes - hours after everyone else had packed up and gone home. Not a pretty picture.

Fortunately, the somewhat kinder, gentler side of my ego stepped in, cheered me on, and told me to just do my best. If worse came to worse, I could just walk. It wasn't the most appealing option, but I could simply STOP RUNNING and shift into Sunday-hike-in-the-Blue-Hills mode. Not ideal, but not impossible. There was no reason for me not to finish - or for that matter, begin - this run.

By 8 a.m. 80 of us assembled at the "start line", a simple white line chalked across a path. The race director outlined the course, noting landmarks and land mines, and off we went. We hauled ass straight up hill and into the woods, still buzzing with excitement, nervous energy, and a recent breakfast. The pack of runners filtered out and I found myself in my usual place - not entirely at the back of the pack, but pretty darn close. The front of the pack? They were long gone.

People tend not to talk much on trail runs, which might be why I like them (the runs and the people) so much. If you talk, you risk losing the peace, serenity, and fragile silence that accompanies jogging through the pristine woods. You also risk slipping, falling, twisting an ankle, or doing a face plant into a mud puddle. I have seen it all happen, almost always to some loudmouth in an Ironman race jersey as he is yapping about his PR. As I allowed the silence of the woods on a Sunday morning embrace me, I let my thoughts wander. I began an inner monologue of positive thoughts and words, telling myself to keep going, keep breathing, and enjoy this beautiful opportunity, even when it felt like I couldn't take another step. Despite the rough terrain, though, there was never a moment when I thought I wouldn't finish or when I cursed signing up for this run. At times I even enjoyed it.

The course was beyond challenging - it was INSANE! Without a doubt it was the most grueling, exhausting, laborious, taxing, demanding run I HAVE EVER RUN. It was also the most exhilarating, rewarding, amazing, satisfying, beautiful ass-kicking to which I have ever subjected myself. 2200 feet of vertical incline. 12 + sets of rock "stairs". Boulders. Rocks. Pebbles. Gravel. Tree roots. Fallen trees. Stream crossing. Scrambling. Inclines so steep you couldn't run even if you wanted to. And quiet dirt roads, skyline views, crunchy pine cones and twigs underfoot. Nature at its most authentic.

I ran by myself for most of the time but for a few moments with a very special person - I didn't know who he was until I ran up right beside him and recognized his famous-in-running-circles face and sweet smile. Rich is a 78 year old man from Marlborough who has run in over 70 Marathons and 61 Ultra Marathons ("ultra" as in longer than 26.2 miles. MUCH longer.) He ran the Vermont 100, which is 100 miles nonstop, at age 72, becoming the oldest person to complete the race. Rich was 53 when he ran his first Marathon. It is not humanly possible to run next to this guy and not be inspired. We ran together for a couple of minutes, admiring the course and enjoying the morning, and eventually settled back into our own paces. For the record, Rich finished the race all of two minutes after me and barely broke a sweat.

Pretty soon The End was near. My clothes were drenched with sweat and my legs were caked with dirt. My sunscreen had by now trickled down my neck and a few little blisters had formed on strategically incapacitating locations on my feet. Several miles and hours were behind me and I was happy. As I trundled down the last 3/4 mile hill, dry grass and brush whipping against my legs, sun burning, and small pebbles pecking my ankles, I felt alive. The sky blazed with brightness and a slight breeze ruffled the trees around me. I could see the base of the slope. Alone, I took deep breaths and tried to fill myself with all the goodness and vibrance of this sacred morning. I wanted to breathe it all in and hold it in my lungs, in my mind, in my heart.

Sometimes not fully knowing what I'm getting myself into can be helpful. We can panic at the unknown or fear it, but ultimately the best we can do is simply take that first step.

“To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.” - Shakespeare

I am on the brink of finishing my first full year of school. As I look back over the past ten months, I can hardly imagine what it was like to inhabit the world in which I previously lived and worked. It seems like another life, someone else's life. I remember writing last summer about how different it was to get up, throw on some jeans, and bike up to campus. Now, that's my life. That's my reality. And I love it. Had I known how happy school would make me, maybe I would have done it sooner. But no, there was a lot of learning that had to happen before I was actually ready to be in school.

I head out to run early on Sunday morning, letting the previous week filter through my mind and making room for the coming week to seep in. In preparation for an upcoming trail run, I set out towards the hills and it is less than a mile before I'm tackling one. It's early but it's already muggy and humid; as I take on the incline, I am sweating profusely. Soon enough I am rewarded with a sweet decline, a gentle reprieve. I coast a little bit and let gravity carry me, feeling the cooling breeze.

So many times this year have felt like the incline - demanding, exhausting, and challenging me to put in more than I think I have. How many times did the list of things to read and write and do seem endless? How many times did I let my worries get the better of me? How many times did I simply feel beaten down by the hill before me? Probably more than a few. I will admit that there were things I worried about that, in retrospect, I needn't have. And there were things I didn't think I had the strength to do but somehow found it, deep within a reservoir of something yet undiscovered.

Now is the downhill. There were a few of them during the year - moments of triumph, relief, comfort, or coasting. Moments when I exhaled and let gravity carry me. Moments when I inhaled the fresh air, felt the breeze, and enjoyed the moment with every fiber of my being. This is where I am, this is what I'm doing, this is who I am now. And I am happy.

It's hard to begin to quantify what I've learned this year, both inside the classroom and out. It's almost impossible to put into words how amazing, life-giving, eye-opening, challenging, exciting and rewarding this year has been. It has pushed me and pulled me into a new world. I have learned to listen, to pray, to be present. To push myself and to also let myself rest. To think in a new way. To challenge and be challenged, and to not simply hear, memorize, and accept without question.

As I finish my run, having tackled 7.5 miles of hills, I feel full of energy. I am excited about the upcoming run with my classmates, partly because I'm looking forward to spending time with them and running, but also because by then I'll be done with the semester. And what better way to celebrate it than by running through the woods and getting muddy with friends. Amen!

...Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

So many, many things to think about. Finishing classes in less than four months (and then??). My friend’s best friend passed away a few weeks ago, after a six month wrestling match with leukemia. I went to El Salvador; it changed me for life. Fr. Greg came to BC to read from his new book. I continue to wonder if I want to be a Catholic, if I want to be a chaplain, and if I want to be a Catholic chaplain. Highs and lows. Lots to think about. Run it out, girlfriend. Run it out.

And so that’s what I do, because when all else fails, when I am certain of absolutely nothing, when those feelings of confusion, impatience, faithlessness, and loneliness creep up on me, the one thing I know I can count on to lift me up is running.

I wake up early on Sunday morning and am having breakfast and reading the paper by 6:30 a.m. I have always loved this time of day. It’s my time. Though I spend a significant amount of time on my own, there is something very different about the solitude of the early morning. It is solitude by choice. It is peace. It is the feeling of knowing that while much of the city slumbers, I delight in the pristine morning light, cool air, stillness, and quiet.

Seven miles should do the trick and as I set out I mentally plot a tentative route, knowing I’ll abandon it in favor of hidden sidestreets, hills, and detours. Knowing that today the mileage doesn’t matter enough for me to surrender the luxury of losing myself in the reverie of feet pounding pavement, taking me where they will, leading me up hills, carrying me mile after mile. The sky is clear and almost technicolor. Crocuses have peeped out overnight. After the deluge of last week’s rain storm, the metaphor of new life is more than noticeable. I think about that for a while and it brings me new life. I have felt so jaded and spent the past few weeks; knowing that life will rise again from between sidewalk cracks and walkways, under shrubs and trees, and in small gardens…this is life-giving to me. The winter ice that has clouded my heart and soul begins to melt.

I haven’t run for almost two weeks and settling into a rhythm is like finding my way into the embrace of an old friend. It’s comfortable and reassuring; I feel at home in my own body, peaceful and happy.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was right.

Great Stew Chase - Lynn, MA

Running for stew? Beef stew, no less? Oh what the heck, why not.

When my phone rang at 11 p.m. last night, I knew I'd be running alone. Sure enough, my friend was calling to tell me she couldn't make it to the run. As I've previously written, going to a race alone is, for me, like walking into happy hour on Friday night alone. It's more fun when your friends are there! So I had a little pity party, got over it, and went to sleep. Running races alone is not my favorite thing, but sometimes it's just the thing I need.

Driving up to Lynn on my own, I called a friend who I know wakes up early. We caught up on each other's lives and chit-chatted a little. Then I called my sister and caught up with her. By the time I got to the race I'd had two really nice conversations. It was freezing, but the sun was shining brilliantly and the sky was crystal clear blue.

I checked in and got my number before spotting a few people from the team I used to run with. I caught up with them until it was time to head out. And then, out into the freezing cold weather we went. We lined up at the start, wind whipping through our hair and rustling our jackets. After a quick "ready, go!" we were off.

Hills. More hills. Cold wind. Two waterstops in 9.3 miles. Icy gusts of air. I reach back to pull my hair into a ponytail but feel something like twigs on my neck. It is my hair...frozen into icicles.

Today, I don't know where my thoughts are. I listen to my music and zone out, not really wanting to think about anything, not really needing to. The miles fly by. And then we're done.

Grab a water, stretch, and go. Nothing particularly memorable about this one. Not even an ugly t-shirt.

I killed the hill(s): Part II

Just. Keep. Going. That was my mantra last Sunday, as hill after hill after big, f-ing hill rose up before me, waited around the corner for me, and lured me forward with the promise of flaming quads on the way up and screaming hamstrings on the way down. After enough of those hills, I knew what I was in for. I knew what was coming, and I knew I could do it. I just had to tell myself over and over again: Just. Keep. Going. Don't stop. Don't slow down. Don't get sidetracked or slowed into inertia or overwhelmed at the prospect of what's ahead. It's there, it's ahead of you, and you can do it. I repeated this over and over in my head and somehow made myself believe it. At long last, after 16 miles of hills, I reached the finish line. For the record, it was at the top of a hill.

It's a good thing I did that run last week, because this week I don't know if I could even drag my sorry ass out of bed, never mind up to New Hampshire and through the middle of nowhere. Since I started school six months ago, this has been the busiest and probably most stressful seven days. Books. Papers. Residency applications. A two-day-a-week internship that seems to think I should answer emails and get projects done the other five days a week, too. A meeting with my advisor to discuss a synthesis project. A meeting with a colleague to work out details for a fundraising event in two weeks. (Wait a sec, didn't I run kicking and screaming from fundraising? Yeah, I thought so.) The realization that I might finish classes in six months. A meeting with my spiritual director in which I discuss my free-fall of faith and wonder aloud and tearful whether I should or even want to remain Catholic. An alarm that jolted me awake at 5:30 a.m. every day and found me, book in hand, moments later. On several occasions during the week, I literally had to stop and force myself to take a deep breath to release the knot in my stomach. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

How many times have I told myself that during a race? Breathe. Breathe. No seriously, breathe. Keep going, keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep looking ahead and just keep going. This week felt like a race to me, minus the gummy bears and sports bra. Several times this week I actually broke into a jog to make sure I got wherever I was going on time. Several times this week I kinda wished I had a cheerleading crowd or a bunch of drunk college students by the side of the road, cheering and screaming things like, "Lookin' good!! Almost there!! You can do it!!" Because really, several times this week I wasn't so sure. I wasn't feelin' so good, probably wasn't lookin' so good, didn't feel like I was anywhere near 'there', and definitely wasn't convinced I could do it.

When I felt like I needed those cheerleaders and words of encouragement, somehow they appeared. A call from my friend to tell me she's pregnant. A call from my Dad to see how I'm doing. A dirty joke from one friend and a funny post card from another. A cute email, a good workout, a strong espressso, a fun song on the radio, a moment of silence in the chapel. These little moments joined together to be my cheerleaders, my Gatorade, and my gummy bears. They sustained me during the race, propelled me up the hills and guided me safely back down.

Each time I felt like I was on the verge of slowing down, giving up, throwing in the towel and calling it a day, I reminded myself: Just. Keep. Going. Keep reading that book, keep writing that paper, keep working on that application. Don't quit yet. Keep at it. Keep going. No one says I'm gonna win the race, and no one says that getting to the finish is gonna be pretty, easy, or necessarily fun, but I will get there.

Derry NH, 16 Miler - I killed the hill(s)

Up at 6:30. Coffee. Clothing. Check email. My door buzzes at 7:10; Sarah is early. Soon enough we're heading North in the warmth of my car, catching up on talk of work and school and life and everything else that can be shared between two people who have commiserated over chafing, cramps, and porta potties.

The drive to NH is easy; it's early enough on a Sunday morning and no one's really out. The sun is breaking through the clouds, giving the sky an almost mosaic look. Blue patches push their way through the morning sky, illuminating the snowy fields on either side of the road. We cruise up 93 and reach Derry around 8:30, park the car and head to the gym. It's crowded and busy, buzzing with energy and excitement. We pick up our race numbers and t-shirts (a hideous cayenne-pepper red, seriously?!) and find a spot on the floor in the crowded gym.

I have been feeling apprehensive about this run since the minute I clicked 'register' on the website. It's the longest distance I've done in a while and I haven't been feeling particularly focused on training. Over the past few weeks my mind and my energy have been on a number of different things, running not being one of them. I've gotten in my normal workouts and a few good weekend runs, but have been almost lackadaisical about it. No training plan on the fridge, no countdown to race day, no protein shakes. Okay, I never really did the protein shakes to begin with, but I always meant to start! I hadn't even mentioned the run to anyone until yesterday at dinner when a few friends asked what I was doing for the rest of the weekend.

We have almost an hour and a half before the race starts and I know it's not in my best interest to get sidetracked by and sucked into the nervous energy around me. Though the room is full of loud chatter, laughter, and back-slapping guys who feel compelled to grunt, I do see a few wise folks chilling out in quiet corners, reading a magazine or book or just relaxing. I follow suit and sit comfortably with my ipod. Surrounded by hundreds of runners, I retreat to my quiet place, to my inner solitude. I remind myself to enjoy this day and this run, as so many people do not have the freedom, the resources, or the opportunity to get up and do the same. I remind myself to run my own race - it's not about the skinny chick in hot pink running tights next to me or the lanky guy in an Army shirt who passes me - they have their own race, and I have mine. I relax, I breathe and I pray.

After a short while it's time to go. I have somehow lost Sarah to the bathroom lines, so I head to the start, knowing we'll reunite at the finish. We gather at the start line and without so much as a megafone or whistle or horn, we begin. And we're off, just like that. The voices and sounds of the crowd buoy me along for the first half mile or so, then I put on my ipod and retreat to that inner place of prayer, affirmation, serenity, strength, and rockin' tunes. I keep the positive monologue going and remind myself to take it one mile at a time and to just. keep. going.

I pray, dedicating each mile to a person or a cause, remembering them, asking God's blessing on them, and, when I feel tired, just repeating the words or phrases in my head, reminding myself that whatever mile I'm running is for them. It gives me focus and perspective, and it makes my "job" of running a race seem a lot easier and more fun.

The hills are unlike anything I have seen before - constant, massive, and relentless. I wonder if my energy will run out, if my legs will be done before I am. I see people walking up one of the first hills and remind myself that walking is always an option. There is no shame in taking it a little easy on yourself when the road is tough. Metaphor for life? Perhaps.

There are mile markers every mile, a few water stops, a good cadre of volunteers, and that's it. I mean THAT'S IT. No timing clocks (woohoo!), no banners, and few people cheering. There was an older couple in lawn chairs, drinking coffee from a thermos and reading the Sunday paper and there were a few little kids throwing snowballs at us - I guess that could count as 'cheering'. In a weird way...

Miles 8 through 10, I don't even know what's happening to me. I keep going faster, passing people left and right. This never happens to me, and I'm sort of freaked out by it. Did someone spike my water? Did I OD on coffee this morning? I am actually picking up speed and enjoying it. I feel good. I pray that it will last.

The miles tick by, one by one. Every time I pass a mile marker I pop a few gummy bears, take a deep breath, and look around. Damn, New Hampshire is beautiful. Horse farms, rolling hills, winding roads. The fact that I cannot see what's around the corner (or, that I cannot see how big the hill is around the next corner) helps a lot. I just keep moving, moving, moving. I pass mile 13 and can't believe I've just run a half marathon. Just a few more miles. Keep praying, keep moving, keep breathing. Mile 14. Mile 15. I turn on my favorite song and let it propel me up and down the final hills. We are coming back the way we ran out, and the start/finish is just ahead. I can see the finish line timing clock and I feel really good. Sprint the final few hundred meters up the school driveway and I'm done. Just like that. Just like we started. It's over. Someone leans down and takes off my ankle timer. My hamstrings are screaming. But I feel good. It's done, and I did it.

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?