Going Down to Go Up

Kiddos--thriving

Job?

Check.  

Or at least mostly--just waiting for the details to get ironed out.  The job is an in-house position with a natural resource company (gold mining) where John will be involved with lots of different (but familiar to him thanks to Rock Well) aspects of the company.  At this point the company is small and growing at a steady, well thought out pace.   May it continue this way.

It's so weird how quickly things change.  John kept telling me, when my spirits where sagging, It can all change, Mary.  It can all change fast when it's right.

I'd nod my head and smile and try hard and believe that, but secretly think, It's been nine months . . . that should be enough time for something to happen.

After that last job, the Idaho Technologies position, fell through, I doubted that anything could happen in this economy.  I doubted our choices.  I doubted John.  I doubted myself.  I lived in a dark swirling world of doubt.  

I found tears leaking out of my eyes and my patience worn paper thin.  I found that standing was just a touch too challenging and lying prone with my eyes shut the very best position possible.  

I fought this.  I pushed myself out of bed.  I forced my body to move and stretch and sweat and hurt.  Nothing helped.  I walked through my days in the dim light of hopelessness.  I had come so far.  How could I give up now?  I can't.  I can't.  I can't, I kept telling myself.  Don't give up.

Only, I'd hit the wall.

That energy, that something left that I wrote about a few weeks ago, it was gone.  Used up.  The last bit of my strength was burned off trying to absorb the sorrow and disappointment of the last job falling through.   I spent the last two weeks trying not to loose it.  

Waking in the morning and staring at the dark circles under my eyes, the deep pain in my eyes, and the pinched lips, I'd force my mouth into a smile and manually smooth the wrinkles out of my forehead and take deep, cleansing breaths.  Hold it together, I'd tell my reflection.  Hold it together.  Smile and breath and get the kids up and fed and off to school and DO NOT speak any of the words swirling around in your head EVER EVER EVER. 

But I did loose it.  I lost it nearly every day this week.  When John asked me what I thought about all this "good new" of the companies interest, I said, I'm mad.  I don't want to deal with another rejection so soon.  

You're not even a tiny big hopeful?  He asked.

No.  Now, lets change the subject. 

But Mary, it might work out.

It won't, I told him and then changed the subject and wouldn't let him bring it up again.

Even when John told me that the head hunter asked him for salary ranges, I refused to feel anything (not that I didn't.  I did, but I buried that hope deep down in the sludge that used to be my heart) at all.  That's nice, I said.   Now, what time do we need to leave for Piper's performance tonight?  And what should we have for dinner?

Yes, hope bubbled up, but I stamped it down hard.  Don't think about it.  Read, write, eat, do anything but hope.  Stamp, stomp, clomp, hope was repressed again.  Wheph.

And then the head hunter called and asked if John could come into the office and that the company would most likely extend an offer.  That's when that yeasty hope that I kept damping down and that kept rising up again and again overflowed and I let myself feel the first flutter of . . . anticipation--the really really good Christmas-y kind.  And once I did, this amazing, gentle, peaceful calmness filled me and took the place of all that anger and worry and numbness.  I felt this sigh of my soul.  

And so when John came back with his sweet, sneaky smiles and strong feelings of hope for the company, it was just what I expected.  When he said, at the end of everything that they asked him to come on (with the exact details coming later this week because they hadn't ironed out the details), I wasn't surprised.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world.  Of course this is the next step.  Of course this was the job that we'd been waiting for.  That could only come exactly now.  

Duh.

And now I look back at how I've done over the last nine months and cringe.  Why did I doubt so much and often and why did I loose hope again and again?  I so wanted to finish strong and hopeful, smiling and leaping faithfully through the final lap of this LONG process, but I've been crawling, clawing my way to this end.  

In one of my yoga DVD's, the instructor says, You must go down to go up.  This phrase has run through my head over again through all these months.  I have gone down . . . and down . . . and down . . . and down until I really didn't think I could go any lower and yet have been pushed down even farther into the dark.  

I can go no lower, I whispered.  No, no lower!  Please!  

And again, I was pushed farther.  

I can not take this.  

Lower still.  

I will not survive this.  

The depth.

In that utter deep, that super low point when I seriously wanted to sleep all day and the tiniest thing seemed like an inhuman effort and I felt completely empty of everything and tired my hardest to kill any hope that bloomed in my breast, I realized that I would go on.  

That whether or not we got a job, we would go on--all of us--and we would figure out how to thrive.  That no matter how low we sunk, no matter how sad or angry or depressed we were, it would end and we'd hope again and again and again.  That something would lift us, something beyond me or you would come in and imbue our minds with hope and strength and lift us out of the depths.

We must go down to be able to understand the heck "up" means.  

I know down.  

I think I'm on my way up.

I may not have done it well or in the right form, but I, we've, done it.  I'm super proud of John and his resiliency and hope and strength and annoyingly unquellable optimism and faith in himself and what we should do each step of the way.  He has run this race perfectly.  He totally gets the gold.  I'm, like maybe, second to last.  Man, I'm proud of him.  And so proud of the kids.  They've rocked this move, this transitioning from one place to another, completely.

And really, we have had fun along the way.  Arches, France, ALL of New England, New York City, Canadian Rockies,  having months of sleep overs at grandparents house, Yellowstone, running 1/2 Marathon and a full marathon, finishing my book (hopefully totally), and a million other fun things that would bore you to name.  

Shesh.  

So Busy

Within an hour of completing our Marathon, John and I drove the five hours back up to Orem.  Upon our arrival, we quickly at some delicious soup my mother-in-law had made for us and then on stiff legs, began gathering up and packing for our week long sojourn to Tri-Cities, Washington for Thanksgiving with my sister Anne and my parents.

We left at 7am Sunday morning--24 hours after our marathon began--and drove ten and a half hours, through four states, to get to Richland, Wa.  By this point, both John and I were too stiff to even move.  We hobbled in while my father and brother in law and nephews carried in our bags and entertained our children.  They fed and coddled us as we healed and entertained the children so we could spend a few much needed days just sitting.  Heaven.

Wednesday morning, my father took me out on a three mile run to stretch out the kinks in my very kinked legs.  Oh, oh, oh, it hurt and felt good at the same time, but mostly, hurt and I was SOOO slow.  But it did work out the kinks.  After that run, I could actually go up and down the stairs without bracing my arms on the wall and railing.  

Then on Thursday, THANKSGIVING, Anne and my dad and I ran a 5k turkey trot race along the Columbia River--soo cold--with Sarah Palin trailing behind.  Yep, saw the tiny woman with my own eyes and she is TINY and cute and nothing like I thought she'd be.  I tell you, that race was a revelation of how much a marathon takes out of you.  I didn't stop getting passed once--by hordes and hordes of people--and I didn't even care.  

Thanksgiving meal was probably the simplest and most delicious I've ever had.  Usually we are in the kitchen ALL day, but this year, we put the turkey in the oven and then all of us just sat around watching movies (or napping) until about  half an hour before the turkey came out.  I think the relaxed wonder was helped by the fact that we made baked brie (cover a wheel of brie with pie crust and bake at 400 for 20 minutes then pour pure maple syrup over the top and devour), a cheese platter with Cougar gold, soft cheeses and fresh grapes and a platter of fresh veggies to snack on while we waited for the feast.  Again, heaven!

The final hour was a bit crazy, but that was all and we sat down, starving and ready, and feasted, laughing and talking, on the delectable meal.  I wish I had photos--but our camera has gone missing (hum . . .), so you'll just have to use your imagination.  Then we sat in front of the fire, reading, and watching tv, or playing games while the food digested.

A perfect day . . . except that we forgot to sit around and tell each other what we were thankful for.  This is a tradition that I usually want to duck out of and sort of groan when it's mentioned, but this year, the first in forever, when we DIDN'T do it, I missed it.  A lot.  I realized that that thankful round robin sharing was what turns a delicious meal into THANKSGIVING.  In all the rush of finishing the meal, serving up the kids, and making sure that everyone was fed, we forgot that important tradition.

It won't let it, I assure you, happen again.  At least, not on my watch.

And really there are so many things I am thankful for I don't even know where to begin.  That's a good sign, I'd say.

The next two days were a blur of activities (high lights being geo caching, play dough, decorating the whole house for Christmas, watching the office, eating crazy great food, and talking), but my greatest accomplishment on the trip was reading four books.  Yes, that made me periodically anti-social, but it was wonderful.  I haven't read in weeks/months thanks to our training and just busy schedule.  My goal was to read one.  I so rocked that goal.

Then Saturday came, our last day, and we couldn't believe how fast everything went by.  Anne and I shot out to grab some face lotion and hit the mother-load of crazy cheap, beautiful clothes at TJ Max (Winner's).  Everything Anne put on looked amazing on her.  I was not so lucky--thankfully--but did find a pair of boots (yes, my weakness) that I loved for cheap.  There is something magical about shopping with your sister--lots of laughing and making complete fools of yourself--that makes me wish I were with them everyday (though, I wonder if I'd go bankrupt in a matter of days).

Then home again--after ten hours of driving--to unpack, put away, clean up and out, and get ready to start our normal life all over again.  

And now it's started.  Wheph!  Ballet, soccer, preschool, meals, activities, friends . . . life all swinging back into action.  Here we go!

Old Crone Legs

That's what I have.  I need support if I get out of a chair (a strong hand to physically pull me out) and going up and down stairs is so horrifically painful, I cringe just typing those words.  If I step wrong and put too much weight on one leg or another, my leg gives out and I got toddering about the room, crying and reaching out for help.  And I will not describe to you the torture of trying to sit myself down on the toilet.  No, no, not for your ears gentle reader.

But what else can I expect from running 26.2 miles as fast as my little legs could carry me (which as it turns out was not that fast in the end)?  

Here is the lowdown.

Eleven miles downhill (which I did not train for--where was I going to find that sort of miles downhill?) at a nice clip, shins and thighs burning, then a series of two hideous hills (still in good spirits), followed by some LONG miles of flat, followed by evil, but quite lovely, deep washes.  These ended on mile 19 where I found that my thighs (thanks to very sharp downs and steep ups--which I had also not trained for) did not like me at all.  

This is where I began to actually run the race.  Before that, I was floating along in this miasma of giddy joy that this day was actually here and I was finally facing this monster I'd been dreading and adoring at the same time.  I was seeing it's face and finding it quite lovely.  Really, I felt good.  Strong. 

Then the final hill loomed in front of us, not too steep, but steep enough to cut off any other view, and there, I found a boy/man staggering around, caught in the clutches of some evil leg cramps.  I gave him some power jelly beans and he, wobbling boy, encouraged me on.  John had stopped some time back to stretch out his knee/leg and I had forged on--afraid that if I stopped I wouldn't start up again.  I did walk, but began running near the crest of the hill when I saw this long delightful down.  My legs felt just as wobbly, but I kept telling myself that there was this tiger inside of me, a tiger full of rage and sharp claws and great sharp teeth, who was clawing the walls of my body, waiting to come out.  At mile 22, I found that my legs, tired, tight, and turned into these things I had ABSOLUTELY NO control over.  My breathing was good, my mind strong, but my legs had no give, nothing left.  I willed them to run faster, unleash that tiger, but all that happened was . . . nothing.  I just kept running at this pace so slow I'm sure Finnegan could have beat me.

But I kept running.

I kept going.  Oh, I wanted to stop, especially through the deserted neighborhood streets that stretched on and on and did nothing but stay flat and straight and boring and HARD.  

I know hard, I kept saying, I know uncomfortable, I know painful, I know unbearable, and this is still not that bad.  

And that's when I knew I'd passed through the wall.  

I always thought the wall would be this great looming thing that stopped you in your tracks, brought you to your knees, cramped your body so that you knew you couldn't move (and maybe it is for some).  I thought it was this thing that was obvious and dramatic and shattering. 

For me, it wasn't.  It was like this graceful realization that no matter how much I willed it or wished it, my body was spent, my legs jello and the only way to get to the finish line was to keep on moving.  I was not, I realized going to get that second wind--there was no wind left--nothing to catch.  There was just tired me, exhausted me, running slower than my two year old down the last long winding hot streets of a small town alone.  Yes, John was beside me, but the only person that was going to get me over that finish line was me.  Me.  And me was very tired.

And I felt every step.  I actually felt myself running, heard the pound pound pound and the giddy joy of being part of something big and wonderful wore off.  Fast.  Ug.  How had all those other miles just slipped by and now the miles where stretching out like six miles (I was SURE that they had goofed and placed the mile markers every two miles just to make us run faster or something foolish like that because how could it take THAT long to get from one mile marker to the next?)?

That's when I had that thought, that this was hard, this was REALLY hard, but not quite horrid, that I realized that perhaps this is what the second wind is.  It's not a great jolt of energy (though I assume some people have this as well), but this renewed determination to get her done and buckle down and show who's the boss and all those great cliches. 

Out the window went my unrealistic time. 

Out the window went my pride at my athletic abilities.

Out with anything remotely self-serving and in with this calm mellowness.  I chatted with my fellow dying marathoners and waved at the tiny children cheering me on and thanked all the volunteer retired police men (I read there vest because, you see, it took me about seven minutes to pass them) and smiled when they cheered me on.

My legs were dead, but my spirit wasn't.  

And that, I think is the best thing about that marathon.  Crossing the line was a delightful, wonderful, blissful treat, but feeling that calm determination in the face of all that pain and hunger and waning strength was a revelation.

I think it's why people torture their bodies over and over again--running a marathon--so that they catch a glimpse of what the human body and heart are capable of, what they themselves are capable of.

And let me tell you, it is worth every hill I climbed, every muscle I strained, every harsh breath I breathed.

It was.  I'm so glad I did it.  And if I did it, you can.

The ground beneath my feet

 

Our marathon is this weekend.  

Now that we're running almost no miles, I'm realizing how this training has totally altered my perspective about distance and pain and endurance.  

This morning we ran two miles.  Just about the time I was figuring out how to breath and shake the stiffness out of my legs, we stopped.  It felt like a blink, a sigh, a sneeze and then it was over.  

That's how troubles in life are--you see them coming, they surround you, and then they're gone.  It's hard, you don't want to go through it, but you do and afterwards you sort of happy going through it--you can clearly see why it happened and what the results are.  That's the two mile trouble.  

But sometimes, life gives you marathon trouble, something that's gonna stick with you for a long LONG time and you'd better figure out how to pace yourself or you not going to make it. And you hurt almost the whole time.  You would give almost anything to stop, to be there already, but you're to far out and the only way to make it home, is to keep on running.  Even when your feet are on fire and your feel your blisters bleeding.  Even when your side aches and your stomach clenches in hunger pains.  Even when you've drunk the last of your water and your throat is parched.  You must go on.  And on.  And on. 

It feels like it will never ever end.  

That's why you train.  After running miles and miles and miles, you know one thing for certain--

that it will end.  You will run your last steps and then be able to sit down, eat, drink, and rest.  It comes, it's there, you just have to go through the long, long process to get there.

I am not there yet.  I am still far out and I don't know how long I have to keep running to get to the end of this.  I'm tired.  I'm starving for things, simple things I thought I'd keep, but haven't been able to.  I hoped it would end, maybe a little too much, but I couldn't help it, and instead of being called in, I was waved on--another lap or two or three, I don't know.  

And it's hard.  I hurt.  But there is no stopping, yet, there is nothing but keeping my feet moving, my spirit strong against this weariness and discouragement.  I try to lift up my eyes, to see the things of beauty around me, of grace and wonder, and they feed me.  They are the water stations of this race I'm running.  

I don't know when it will all end.  But I'm pacing myself and I still have something inside me despite the aches and pains and hurts.  I'm still laughing and I guess that's the most I can ask for right now. 

And so this weekend?  This real marathon?  A shrug.  I have no expectations other than to finish--even if that means walking.  I know how to deal with pain.  I know how to deal with discouragement.  I know how to push through.

Life, you are the best trainer there is.

This IS as good as it gets

This is what is comforting me about John not getting that Idaho Tech job . . . wait, I'll figure it out in just a minute . . . I know I've got something some where.  

Oh, shoot, got to get the kids to do their jobs.  

Dinner time already?  

Why aren't the kids doing their jobs?  

I've got to remind Phoebe to get ready for ballet.  

Oh, yeah, life.

Life and time and living comforts me.

Still bummed, but each hour that passes, I feel more fine with it.  I mean, nothing has changed.  

Darn it.

Just a little (LOT) disappointed.

As Good as it Gets?

My friend keeps telling me, when we're both trying to puzzle out our somewhat muddled lives, "Well, if this is as good as it gets, I guess it's pretty good."  

This phrase has run through my head a ton lately as we've waited and waited and WAITED to hear about this Idaho Tech job.  Wednesday thru Friday were physically painful for me--I seriously felt every minute pass and both of us where staring at the cell phone willing it to ring or at the computer willing it to give us an answer.  Life stood still and I could barely breath just wanting to know one way or the other.  I kept thinking about that Carly Simon song "Anticipation"and the story behind it (she was on NPR last week).  She talked about waiting for Cat Steven's to come pick her up for a date and how the anticipation of him coming was making her miserable and miss the whole magic of the moment she was living in.  She thought then and thinks now that anticipation takes away from your living life.

I agreed.

However, I asked myself, how does one force one's mind to NOT anticipate?  To not hope and dream and pray without stopping for something you want so bad it's probably unhealthy? How? How? HOW? 

My answer?  There isn't a darn thing--anticipation is part of life and life is full of making you scream with frustration waiting.  

By Friday night, I felt like a limp rag, used and then left to dry up in a misshapen hard form, useless and uncomfortable.  Like everything else in this whole situation, I felt the full extent of my powerlessness.  There was absolutely nothing on this good earth that I or anyone else around me could do to get John this job.  

It would either come or it wouldn't.  He'd either get the job or he wouldn't.

And just thinking/saying/hearing/feeling that phrase in my mind, ears, heart, I felt this jolt.  

Oh, I thought.  Oh, wait.  I can't do anything about this.  I can't.   I can only really, let go and trust that the right thing will happen.  And while I'm letting go, I can try to actually start using my brain again--start writing and reading and talking with the kids and friends and making plans for my days--today, tomorrow, the next day.  

It felt like the pause button on my life had been released and I was free to move about my life again like normal.

Only it wasn't really normal.  I felt different.  Freer.  Liberated from those constraining bonds of anticipation. 

It felt wonderful. 

It was waiting there all along, that peace, that calmness--just waiting for me to surrender my indomitable will to the ebb and flow of the universe--to enfold me in it's steady assurance that whether I worry about it or not, the patter our lives will settle and form as it should.

Seriously, it feels like Christmas, sweet and hopeful and full of quiet wonder.  

It's miraculous.  Thank you, universe, for this gift.  

And it's made me think that the phrase shouldn't be "if this is as good as it gets, then this is good enough" it should be, This is good enough.  This, right now is enough.

Pix of us

Piper's great idea and Celia's masterful execution.  SPONGE Bob.
What?  What's that noise?  Is there something in there?
What?  Celia?  Who else is in there?
Piper!  Shesh, glad we looked before we threw out the leaves.

Project Rake the yard (and attempt to get a pile big enough to jump in).
The closest we came to a photo of Henry in his ghost costume (which I never saw him wear--it's bundled up in his lap--Phoebe showed it to all of us).
Generations of  beauties--Halloween show-off night.
Rockin' Pirate and Hanging Loose Gypsy.
"Let me read your future . . . oh, yes I see it now . . . "
Finn as a Lightning McQueen driver--best photo of him (notice Ellis in the back round).
GOOD witch Piper.