Pair of Honors Back-to-Back

Two friends honored me with thoughtful invitations recently: one asked me to be her roommate, and the other asked me to hike the Colorado Trail with him. For personal reasons I declined both offers, but am complimented that they asked!

Based on those two invitations, it would have been a great week.

But then the Universe bestowed another pair of honors on me: Two editors responded to my pitches––even though they both rejected my story ideas.

One editor rejected my book proposal because it didn’t meet her international sales strategy needs, but she awarded me with another assignment. It’s a modest assignment but I look forward to building her confidence in me.

The other editor rejected a personal essay I had submitted, but was impressed with what she had read. She encouraged me to keep in touch and try again. (I will!)

First Meet with Run Club

I’m not a fast runner––although I did run a marathon in 2007 and have competed in numerous 5k races. Nevertheless, my completion times are pathetic. I run to stay in shape and I like organized races because they are fun events.

I haven’t consistently run for the past two years though, so I registered for a 5k race and then joined a local running club to begin training. But I panicked upon learning that a 9-time Boston Marathoner would be leading my first group run.

From the second I hit “start” on my chrono and set off on my toes, I thought I was running too fast. My face flushed and my body lumbered. I alternated between heavy breathing and shallow gasping. My mind screamed, “I’M DYING,” but I was familiar with the route we were running and knew with certainty that I would survive (because I had before). It turned out to be easy to ignore my mind because all I could think about was throwing up.

Up ahead of me, the only other girl in the group ran at a 6- to 8-minute mile pace. She was booking. Since our route looped the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, I could see her across the water conversing with another fast running mate. The only sounds coming from me were huffing-and-puffing and grunting.

Luckily, the Boston Marathoner was very gracious. He kept his pace with me and another guy in the last of the pack. Throughout the entire run, the Marathoner chatted about different topics. I would’ve contributed to the conversation, but my tongue felt like it had swelled up within my whole head.

Did I think about stopping? No, but I wanted to slow down. I was running outside of my comfort zone, physically pushing myself––and I was gripped with fear the entire time. I faded from the Marathoner a couple of times, but I forced myself not to drop back too far. From my experience running with other groups, I know how mentally important it is to keep up with the pack. After what seemed like an ETERNITY, we turned a corner and were on the return route home.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the other guy in our pack stopped running. Now it was just me and the Marathoner in the final stretch. We picked up our pace. I pumped my arms and legs hard, and raced the elite runner to the finish line.

I had such a strong finish: 3.5 miles in 35 minutes––that’s a 10-minute mile for me, a significant improvement over running by myself.

My spirits soared. I was a champion for finishing. I had just run the race of the century.

Away from Concrete and Civilization

The social forecast for this weekend appears to be active. A party, a runner’s expo and a book reading are all on the agenda. The anticipated mixing and mingling is in sharp contrast to how I spent last weekend: with a solitary walk in the woods.

The Boston area received two inches of an “April Fool’s” snowfall on Friday, April 1^st. The next day, I woke up early and headed to the low-rolling Blue Hills Reservation. Despite the sunshine and reasonable temperatures, I knew the snow covering would keep most people away and I could enjoy a peaceful hike on uncrowded trails––something I took for granted while living in the remote Elk Mountains in Colorado and now miss here in the dense population of New England.

Like most ridges in urban areas, the ascent is immediate and steep. There is no gradual elevation increase through switchbacks; just a straight-up shot. I was mindful of my footing, but relieved that the snow covering was soft enough to gain traction yet firm enough to not be slippery. I met a few other hikers at the top of the ridge, but once I got walking, I was by myself.

I walk to find answers––the type only revealed through my experiences away from concrete and civilization.

In the peace and quietude of the woods, my mind turns on in full-blast stereo. I don’t “think” about my problems, I hear them “shout” at me. And it is beautiful to hear me. Back on the grid, I’m so plugged in and racing at such a pace, I don’t have time or bandwidth to take me on. I push me to the back burner and focus on my other obligations. But on the trail, there’s nothing but plenty of time.

And in that walking time, my suppressed problems rear up––and then evaporate. Solutions come to me that I hadn’t previously thought of; or ideas for trying for something new; or I accept that I can’t change a bad situation, only manage my role in it. The “mountains” in my mind that were seemingly insurmountable, I am suddenly able to climb.

Family and friends assume I hike for exercise. 

Apartment with a View -- Into Myself

The leasing agent told me my new apartment had a view. I leased the place sight unseen (it was occupied and unavailable for viewing) because I needed a place to live pronto and I really wanted to live in this amenity-rich building.

When I got the keys a week later, I was delighted to see that the wide windows gave me ample view of Bunker Hill Monument, a mile away. (I’m grateful that the National Park Service still has budget to light the tower at night with a modest upward-glow from its base.)

But, between my window and the monument, Interstate 93 sprawls out in my view––for as far as my eye can see.

In New York City, my apartment overlooked brownstone gardens. In San Diego, my apartment overlooked the Pacific Ocean. In Crested Butte, my apartment overlooked the Elk Mountains. Here in this northeast point of Cambridge, my apartment overlooks: the MBTA rail yards, Mass DOT’s salt lot (for snow removal) and about one billion cars going by my window every day.

Yet, I’m not going to move––at least not yet, not for a while. For starters, the highway scenescape is not so bad. Perched above it a half-mile away, I find solace in the repetition of the endless rolling by.

More importantly, I’ve decided I can’t keep moving around the country to distract myself from the larger pains and the deeper issues that exist within me. Yes, it is fun to be like a highway car and move around and live in different places. And I’m grateful for all the friends I meet along the way; they make my adventures all the more real for me. But like Bunker Hill, I now want to stand quiet and still––and face up to my battles.