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.