security blanket

I love the cold.

Clarification:  I do not love to BE cold.  I like knowing that it is cold outside while I am sitting or sleeping somewhere comfortably buried under layers of clothing and mountains of blankets.  I like to become a caterpillar in a cocoon of soft fabrics.

Almost everyone I know is like this.  We live in a country where one of the top selling products is something called a "Snuggie."  So why is it such a joy to the human soul to be all bundled up?  Is it a journey of sorts back to that place where we are infants and we want to be swaddled and held?  I recently watched a movie called Temple Grandin that features a LOT of cows.  I learned that there are these crazy places in America called farms, and on those farms, they have these machines that "hug" the cows and calm them down.  You would think that constricting an animal would set it off, but just the opposite.  

I can't even fall asleep without crawling under the flat sheet.  I need that magic force field that protects me from the mysterious night around my room.  When I was little I was certain that a hand or foot that slipped out from the covers would be susceptible to attack from closet-dwelling monsters (or Ursula who I knew lived in both the Little Mermaid ocean and underneath my bed).  

Even the bravest of us are no strangers to this truth.  Policeman wear a bulletproof vest.  Deep-sea shark hunters bring a cage and an oxygen tank.  And skydivers don't jump without two parachutes on their backs.  We all have our security blankets, things to wrap around our head and our heart when we feel a little chilly, when we're heading out into another brisk fall evening, walking toward the great unknown.

take me out to the ballgame

Bust out the beer and popcorn...tonight the Texas Rangers take their first ever trip to the World Series to face the Giants of San Francisco.  Something just feels right about the Rangers this year, especially because the Series is going down in Arlington.  I love baseball, and I LOVE championship games.
 
Here's to Cliff Lee, Elvis Andrus, and Bengie Molina and the rest of the boys that have quickly become America's favorite underdogs.

Go Rangers!

race day, in pictures

Every good race starts with a song.

And then the gun goes off,

 You most likely start out feeling good,

 and sometimes you have to go it alone,

 but there's a light at the end of every tunnel.

(Especially when the finish line is in view!)

 Rule number one: apply ice.

 And don't forget to celebrate with friends :)

notes on a marathon

The marathon is over.

I had been thinking about October 23rd for a very, very long time, imagining myself running along the 26.2 mile course, picturing my arms outstretched in victory at the finish.  I read a giant book about marathon running.  I asked my runner friends a gazillion questions.  I flipped through each month of Runner's World religiously, hoping to gain some help, some insight, some advice to accomplish my goal.  I followed my 18-week training schedule by the letter, never missing even a 3 miler.  I obsessed over what kind of food to eat, and when, to run my absolute best.  I went to bed on Friday nights at 9:30 and woke up on Saturdays by 5 AM.

There is no doubt in my mind that all of this tedious preparation certainly helped to usher me across the finish Saturday morning in 4 hours, 6 minutes, and 8 seconds.  But there is one ingredient in the marathon recipe I haven't mentioned yet, one that's absolutely imperative for survival.  In hindsight, I recognize that despite my discipline, regimen, schedules, and rules, what really carried my legs for 26.2 miles were the dear friends along the way.

And I do mean all along the way.  This race didn't start on October 23rd.  It started months before that.  The day I decided to train for the marathon, a whole new world opened up to me, one full of people that were on my team, that were rooting for me, that wanted more than anything to see me finish, and to finish well.  My team has all kinds of people on it, people who cooked for me, prayed for me, cheered for me, and people who listened to me talk incessantly and obsessively about running...and then of course there's the people that actually ran alongside me.

So a very loud, special, hands-in-the-air shoutout to these phenomenal folks-

• To Mom, Dad, and sweet brother Cullen for being the best race day crew I could have asked for.
• To Jeannette, Ruth, and Carrie for cheering me across the finish line!
• To Scott and Susan, who opened their home and encouraged me endlessly over the last few months.
• To my yoga class for all their well wishes, for helping me to open my heart on and off the mat
• To David, Scott, and the other guys for all the morning runs from the park.  You made me faster!
• To Team YL and  the best flipping water stop in marathon history!  (Really, who makes a tunnel?  Awesome!)
• To Janie and Allen for loving me and coaching me through in every way.  I have never been so happy to see anyone as I was to see them at mile 22.  Janie even ran the last miles of the marathon with me.  I wanted to stop, to cry, to collapse in a heap on the road but you helped me to breathe and to keep going.  My legs wanted to quit, but you wouldn't let me.  I will never forget it.
• To other friends and family for all your prayer and encouragement, for believing that I could do this very monumental thing.

This race does not just belong to me.  It belongs to you guys, the ones that have been with me every step of the way.  I will never be able to give you the gratitude you so deserve.  Much love to my very big big family.  Here's to the race that's behind us and to the ones still to come!

*I'll post pictures of the grand event as they become available :)

the great magnolia

Another short story attempt.  As you may know, I have a slight obsession with trees. Enjoy.

The Great Magnolia

She was leaning over the steel kitchen table, the cool metal a welcome relief from the choking heat of summer.  The girl stared down the hallway and through the open front door, propped open in hopes of inviting a breeze inside.  From here she could see across the street to the neighbor's lawn where two boys were playing catch underneath the great magnolia.  The girl had often wondered at the life of this tree, planted long before any of the homes in the neighborhood had been built.  She liked to imagine it then, a striking pale beauty against the lush greenbelt, its strong slender arms beckoning people to come and live.  On many occasions, when she passed the house, and if no one was in the yard, she would climb just high enough to pick a flower from the lowest branch.  She would hold it there in her cupped hands and gaze into the soft translucent petals.  There was an old book upstairs in her room full of her sketches of the tree in every season, but she often ripped her finished drawings furiously into tiny shreds.  She watched them fall through her fingers and and settle like pink snowflakes into the carpet.  What she wanted to capture more than anything was the way the magnolia smelled.  There was the scent of course, the subtle citrus that hovered in the air along the quiet suburban drive.  But it was more than that; it was the smell of going home, it was the fragrance of her entire life, or the parts that mattered most.  She had read in an article once about the fascinating connection between the senses and memory. She imagined a direct line from her button nose to that soft, sentimental spot of her brain where she kept her most precious images safe - her mother snapping green beans at the sink, her father tediously picking out Johnny Cash songs on his guitar, her older sister brushing out her honey-brown hair in front of the long mirror.  All she knew was that when she smelled the magnolia, her life was beautiful, frozen perfectly in time like the great tree itself.  The girl stood from the table and stepped out to the front porch.  The boys had grown bored of their game and left their baseball in the grass.  They were flying down the street on their bicycles, traveling full-speed toward their next afternoon adventure. It was quiet now.  She crossed the street and, glancing cautiously to her left and right, scaled quickly up the magnolia.  There was a spot in the very heart of the tree that felt like a chair built just for her.  The girl sat there and clutched the pink flowers in her hands.  She buried her nose deep inside until the sweet aroma became her breath, and she knew then, in the safety of her throne, that everything would be alright.  She stayed there a very long time.  Dusk came and cast an amber light on the walls of her childhood home, and she listened to the great magnolia tell the story of the girl who had grown up inside.

room for new souls

There is no heart in the universe too full.

When my life will not allow the entry,

A larger grace makes room for new souls.

I have not yet reached the limits of love

Nor do I dare to dream that I might

On this side of the river.