It doesn't take much to get a driver's license in British Columbia because I managed to get one when I turned sixteen. My Uncle Phil taught me how to drive in his Chevrolet Chevette. My knuckles white (my uncle's whiter), I managed to pull whatever courage I had from the recesses of my insecure adolescent body and pour it out onto the roads. With the promise of freedom ahead of me, I left my fears behind.
Until I passed a semi truck on the freeway. It was scarier than playing Bloody Mary at a slumber party. The little car shaking, it felt like we were being sucked in under the truck's trailer.
Uncle Phil taught me something that day. He told me that wherever I look, that is where I will go. If I stare at the semi trucks in fear, then I will steer into them. If I fix my gaze at the road ahead then my car will drive straight and strong.
I remember a few years back when I was afraid of dogs. I would carry bear spray with me on all of my runs until I realized one day that because the spray was always in my hands, the fear of dogs was always on my mind. I decided that I would rather live the rest of my life in peace than in fear, so I got rid of it.
When I find myself stuck in debilitating fear, I ask myself what I have been focusing on to get myself stuck. Then I turn my gaze back onto the road ahead and drive my heart straight and strong.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
100 Proof Gives Me Diarrhea
You all know what I'm talking about. We've heard it being preached a million times: "Everything in moderation." My dad's famous for saying that he's "addicted to anything they make more than one of." Whether or not we'd like to admit it, there really can be too much of a good thing.
But I try. Oh, I try.
And before too much time passes, I find myself nauseous from overdoing Easter chocolate, keeled over with stomach cramps from overeating broccoli in failed attempts at redemption, bleeding gums from flossing, sore knees from running, a huge Visa bill, noodle soup running down my chin and no eyebrows.
It all happens so quickly.
I need to realize much more often that it's okay to aim low. That I can always build on what I have but once it's out there, it becomes much more difficult to rein in. One of my favourite quotes is by a Roman authour from the 1st century B.C.: "I have often regretted my speech but never my silence." And isn't THAT the truth.
Andrew's parents brought us back some 100-proof vodka from the States, and, giddy with its power, we mixed ourselves some Ceasars, clinked our glasses and drank them down. However, much to our dismay, the vodka's power seemed to have more of an intestinal hold. Our romantic date nights rapidly went south, and we began to sip our potent vodka-drinks slowly, with a bit more respect.
Too much of a good thing is just that: too much. My hope is to chew slowly, floss gently, run healthfully, spend intentionally, and drink my Ceasars near a toilet.
But I try. Oh, I try.
And before too much time passes, I find myself nauseous from overdoing Easter chocolate, keeled over with stomach cramps from overeating broccoli in failed attempts at redemption, bleeding gums from flossing, sore knees from running, a huge Visa bill, noodle soup running down my chin and no eyebrows.
It all happens so quickly.
I need to realize much more often that it's okay to aim low. That I can always build on what I have but once it's out there, it becomes much more difficult to rein in. One of my favourite quotes is by a Roman authour from the 1st century B.C.: "I have often regretted my speech but never my silence." And isn't THAT the truth.
Andrew's parents brought us back some 100-proof vodka from the States, and, giddy with its power, we mixed ourselves some Ceasars, clinked our glasses and drank them down. However, much to our dismay, the vodka's power seemed to have more of an intestinal hold. Our romantic date nights rapidly went south, and we began to sip our potent vodka-drinks slowly, with a bit more respect.
Too much of a good thing is just that: too much. My hope is to chew slowly, floss gently, run healthfully, spend intentionally, and drink my Ceasars near a toilet.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Airing My Dirty Laundry
We've had a new washer and dryer since we moved into this house in January and it took me until today to realize that there's a "Normal" button on each unit. You see, every day we do at least one load of wash. At least. And each time I've mashed the stinky masses into the wash I've either been forced to choose "Quick Wash" or "Heavy Duty." Quick Wash is a 26 minute cycle while Heavy Duty sucks up an enormous amount of time: 1 hour, 18 minutes. So because I care more about being cheap than I do about being stinky and dirty, I have always chosen the "Quick Wash" button.
This is all not entirely unlike my life. Each time I've come to a fork in the road where the path to the left is "Normal" and the path to the right is "Complicated as Fuck, " I tend to not only swerve to the right but do it at lightening-speed, naked on a rope swing.
However, there are perks to not choosing "Normal." Quick Wash saves water and money despite leaving a few marks. Heavy Duty cleans up the stinkiest of laundry despite sucking up time and energy. Both are rewarding options yet both are not "Normal."
So today, for the first time ever, I noticed that right at the top of each dial in the twelve o'clock noon position is a "Normal" cycle button. I put the laundry through the normal wash cycle and then took it out and put it through the normal dry cycle.
And as predictable as ever, the clothes all got clean in the end.
This is all not entirely unlike my life. Each time I've come to a fork in the road where the path to the left is "Normal" and the path to the right is "Complicated as Fuck, " I tend to not only swerve to the right but do it at lightening-speed, naked on a rope swing.
However, there are perks to not choosing "Normal." Quick Wash saves water and money despite leaving a few marks. Heavy Duty cleans up the stinkiest of laundry despite sucking up time and energy. Both are rewarding options yet both are not "Normal."
So today, for the first time ever, I noticed that right at the top of each dial in the twelve o'clock noon position is a "Normal" cycle button. I put the laundry through the normal wash cycle and then took it out and put it through the normal dry cycle.
And as predictable as ever, the clothes all got clean in the end.
Friday, May 9, 2014
The Three-Legged Race
I spent a lot of my childhood alone. Not in a bad way, no, not at all. It was just the way my sisters and I were spaced out and how they left home early that gave me a lot of time to myself. I often joke about how I'm the youngest child, and a bit of an only child as well and so a product of extreme self-absorption. In fact, most of my writing begins with the word "I." It's all about Suzy. I admit it. I'm self absorbed. I.
But life doesn't work that way. If all I did was talk about myself then I guarantee that most of my friends and family would fuck right off and I'd be forever alone eating whole boxes of Eggo waffles in front of the TV watching Days of Our Lives. But we're created for communion with each other, for community. God must have a sense of humour to give humanity a hefty dose of narcissism with a starving hunger for relationship. It's like we walk around with billboards on our necks proclaiming, "I need you, but piss off!"
We try to do it on our own all the time, don't we? Even as toddlers we'd look up with a scowl at whoever might be helping us and we'd shriek, "I DO MYSELF!" And then we'd cut our finger or tie our shoelaces into 18 different knots.
My conclusion? Don't be alone so much. True, there are a bunch of us who are wired to be alone a little more than the average person but don't play that card so often that you lose out on community. In a three-legged race, two people move forward a lot slower than they would separately but they cross the finish line together. We fumble, we fall, and if we're lucky we might even wind up on top of each other in a heap of sweat and rope. There are grass stains and rope burns and sweat marks, but we all have them. Together. And that's all that matters.
But life doesn't work that way. If all I did was talk about myself then I guarantee that most of my friends and family would fuck right off and I'd be forever alone eating whole boxes of Eggo waffles in front of the TV watching Days of Our Lives. But we're created for communion with each other, for community. God must have a sense of humour to give humanity a hefty dose of narcissism with a starving hunger for relationship. It's like we walk around with billboards on our necks proclaiming, "I need you, but piss off!"
We try to do it on our own all the time, don't we? Even as toddlers we'd look up with a scowl at whoever might be helping us and we'd shriek, "I DO MYSELF!" And then we'd cut our finger or tie our shoelaces into 18 different knots.
My conclusion? Don't be alone so much. True, there are a bunch of us who are wired to be alone a little more than the average person but don't play that card so often that you lose out on community. In a three-legged race, two people move forward a lot slower than they would separately but they cross the finish line together. We fumble, we fall, and if we're lucky we might even wind up on top of each other in a heap of sweat and rope. There are grass stains and rope burns and sweat marks, but we all have them. Together. And that's all that matters.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Push
A mother is bent sideways, balancing life on one hip, edges rounded by the delicious fruit of love. A mother carries the weight of her heart: her children. And when love gets too heavy, she lowers her heart deep down into the cells of each emotional and physical and spiritual muscle ever flexed within her and she draws upon a strength conceived in the exact second that she became Mother. And from that strength, with the grunts and groans of childbirth, pained and exhausted, she heaves life back into her children. Their frail limbs once quivering with the weight of their worlds, silently, from behind like a breeze, her love lifts them up and guides them forward.
I became a mother at the age of twenty-two. The shift from a life focused on Suzy toward a life focused on my child served to carve out parts of me that I didn't know existed. An operation of sorts carried on without anesthetic or any hopes of morphine, recovery, or regained mobility. Running marathons helped me to see the rigors of motherhood in the big picture--that the hard work pays off, the painful moments eventually pass, and a little throw-up never hurt anyone. But it's such a thankless job, isn't it? Our efforts are a well-kept secret from the rest of humanity like a private club in which the initiation would buckle the strongest of knees.
But what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger.
We don't do it for recognition, no. And we certainly don't do it for the fame and fortune. We do it for love. When our children, teetering on spindly legs, venture out into the big world and find their strength waning, they'll be able to look back home and feel the warm wind of our love holding them up and pushing them forward.
I became a mother at the age of twenty-two. The shift from a life focused on Suzy toward a life focused on my child served to carve out parts of me that I didn't know existed. An operation of sorts carried on without anesthetic or any hopes of morphine, recovery, or regained mobility. Running marathons helped me to see the rigors of motherhood in the big picture--that the hard work pays off, the painful moments eventually pass, and a little throw-up never hurt anyone. But it's such a thankless job, isn't it? Our efforts are a well-kept secret from the rest of humanity like a private club in which the initiation would buckle the strongest of knees.
But what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger.
We don't do it for recognition, no. And we certainly don't do it for the fame and fortune. We do it for love. When our children, teetering on spindly legs, venture out into the big world and find their strength waning, they'll be able to look back home and feel the warm wind of our love holding them up and pushing them forward.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Bring it Home
My chest wrings its muscles in angst, my eyes are flecked with worried wet and it's all I can do to tame it, hold it back, rein it in until I get there. I do all the right things: I shoulder check, signal, calmly pull into my spot with my jaw flexed into a peace-forced half-smile while my muscles twitch with emotional overload.
Collecting myself, adjusting the tongue of my shoes, I set my eyes on the path ahead and take names. One step to start, two to keep me going, and then it's no turning back. Not for a while. Not until I'm finished pouring myself out, fertilizing the forest with my heart.
A burn pile's smoke pulls my gaze to the right, interrupting my rhythmic breath for a moment while I draw it slowly in and up! An eagle! Chest out and proud. I lift my own in hopes that I too might be recognized as supreme and then a second later I trip on a root and instead, promptly remember my humility.
My humble feet take me to places in my heart that not even flight could bring.
I run and I run and I run and when I find what I'm looking for, I don't stop and turn around. No. I hold it close. I let it in and turn it 'round until it warms and molds to who I am, becoming a part of me, and then I carry it home.
It's a bit heavier, but I'm a bit stronger. So it all evens out.
Collecting myself, adjusting the tongue of my shoes, I set my eyes on the path ahead and take names. One step to start, two to keep me going, and then it's no turning back. Not for a while. Not until I'm finished pouring myself out, fertilizing the forest with my heart.
A burn pile's smoke pulls my gaze to the right, interrupting my rhythmic breath for a moment while I draw it slowly in and up! An eagle! Chest out and proud. I lift my own in hopes that I too might be recognized as supreme and then a second later I trip on a root and instead, promptly remember my humility.
My humble feet take me to places in my heart that not even flight could bring.
I run and I run and I run and when I find what I'm looking for, I don't stop and turn around. No. I hold it close. I let it in and turn it 'round until it warms and molds to who I am, becoming a part of me, and then I carry it home.
It's a bit heavier, but I'm a bit stronger. So it all evens out.
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