Escape from reality

What is it about running that instills such clarity of mind and singleness of purpose?
Is it the simplicity of the effort? The stripped-away bareness of time spent pounding the pavement or roaming the open trail?
It does not matter the weather, nor the mood; if the body creaks and groans in aging protest. Lace up the shoes and head out the door. One foot in front of the other. Easy. Unfettered. Free.
And, miraculously, the wisdom borne in this moment is unlimited and unrivaled.
Alone or with friends, I find there is no problem or issue so vexing that it cannot be solved on the run. From marriage spats to parenting dilemmas, what to serve for dinner and all the way to global warming, there is no greater perspective than that gained on a run.
Somehow, out on a run, the chaos dissipates and a clear understanding emerges of all that is within us and around us. It is a glorious peace of mind, a calm amid life's storms, a sense of everything being right in the world. It is both self discovery and self preservation.
But, as it always does, the run ends. We re-enter the alternate reality, more difficult and complex. The ease of life on the run evaporates.
Therein, lies the key to the daily run.
Whatever we seek, the run will bring us there. Whether it is one mile or many more, slow or fast, we rise above the fray and escape the madness.
I can't imagine a life without it ... the run, that is, not the madness.

The accidental runner

I've been running for about 11 years now, but people often mistake me for a lifelong runner. I find this odd because any running I did prior to 11 years ago was under protest.
I first learned to hate running at boarding school, when I played field hockey and lacrosse. Running was a source of punishment rather than joy. Lose a game, run laps. Win a game, run laps. Bad practice, miss practice, complain, sick ... run laps.
Basically, running laps around the field was the cure-all and the end-all for anything that might ail a teen-age athlete.
Once, I joined in the school's annual Bemis-Forslund Pie Race, a 4.3 mile distance. If you ran under a certain time, you earned a pie. That was the only solace to my four point three miles of misery.
In college and in my early 20s, I turned to running out of desperation. I did it because I had to do something. But, the effort felt forced and foreign. There was no flow, no fun.
As the next decade passed, I dabbled in other activities. Lap swim. Lifting weights. Aerobics. Spinning. After baby #3, a friend and I turned to walking as an escape from our kids.
Then, with less available time and family/work pressures mounting, we sped up and broke into a run. Two miles a day. Once a week, we pushed ourselves and did a "long" three-mile run. Baby #4 forced a hiatus, but only momentarily.
Somewhere along the miles, I'm not sure of how or when, running took on a new status in my life. No longer hated, but sometimes still painful and miserable, running became a part of my day, and, ultimately, a part of me.
I ran my first 5K and experienced the first-time flush of accomplishing something I never imagined I could. Next up was a half-marathon, and a marathon, more halfs, 5Ks and 10Ks, and then one more marathon.
Just like life pre-kids and post-kids, I now see myself in terms of before I ran and since I started running. I like myself and, consequently, my life a lot more since I let running in.
In 11 years, no matter how lousy I feel on a run, I have never come back from a run wishing I hadn't gone. Instead, I am always thankful that I mustered the good sense to get out the door.
With running, as with life, I've learned to embrace the moment, good or bad. There is no one without the other. The runs that hurt make me appreciate the ones that don't.
While I cannot anticipate how I will feel on any certain day, I do know that whatever the feeling — joy, disappointment, frustration, satisfaction, pain, agony, bliss — it will pass and I will go on.
Today, I find equal parts amazement and delight to look back on the evolution of running in my life; how running has changed for me and within me. Running, I found, suits me. Who knew?

Temperature's rising

With all due respect to President Obama, at this time, on this day, after a dreary, bitterly cold winter and another eight weeks to go, this is what hope and change mean to me right now — buds on the lilac bushes and snow melt on the streets.
Forget the economic crisis, partisan politics, health care coverage, national service programs and the war in Iraq.
This is about me and the promise of winter's end.
Sun, blue skies, temps rising into the 30s (!) and an afternoon run before picking up kids from school. Talk about heaven on earth.
I am giddy with anticipation. No thick, wind- and cold-proof pants. No double layer of socks. Ears and face are free of fleece. Hands are bare. And what? Only two tops? There hasn't been this little between my body and the outside air since October.
We meet at 2:15 and set out on a run that is as liberating as I had imagined all morning. Just thinking about running in temperatures so far above zero for the first time in so long is nearly exciting as the actual run itself.
At 36 degrees, the air gives off a slight scent — mud, grass, wetness, even dog poop — that had disappeared into the frozen nothingness of winter. The chirps of the first returning birds break the months of crisp silence.
In the post run glow, I'm struck by the same thought as I am every time this part of the year rolls around. As miserable as winter can be, it makes the warmth that follows all the more sweet.
The same goes for running outside through these horrendous months.
True, we slog through the ice and the snow, the cold and the wind. Yes, it is miserable and borderline crazy. But the test of will, the push past limits ... there is an undeniable sense of self discovery in the struggle and a pure joyousness in the survival.
Of course, such reflection and appreciation don't come so easily in the thick of the battle; on those days when surrender sings the siren's song and the lure of doing nothing beckons slyly.
Only now, when it is clear that the worst is behind us and the best is yet to come, can I sit here smugly at my computer and wax philosophical about the brutality of the journey.

Thought for the day(s)

Last week's mail brought belated holiday greetings from a friend. Her best intentions in December to be more timely got sidelined by a furnace crisis. So, here she was mid-January, bearing news of the latest family developments.
She also included her thoughts on an editorial in Prevention magazine by Ardath Rodale about a lecture given by the Dalai Lama:
"He was seated on a chair and, at 73 years old, she said he seemed to be the youngest person in the room. She wrote about his insights into the purpose of life. He said compassion, forgiveness and tolerance are essential to our existence as well as self-discipline and contentment.
"All humanity must work together for the well-being of each other and for our planet. (The Dalai Lama) encouraged everyone to reach out to others with a warm heart and with respect, and begin each day with thankfulness for our beautiful world and for the joy of sharing our lives with one another."
Just something to think about.
Such wisdom won't solve the world's problems or make our own individual struggles dissolve (although, it would be nice if life were so uncomplicated). But, this approach may just help smooth the waters and spread a little peace.
Some days, I suppose, that could be as good as it gets.

All in a morning's run

Friday morning's run started out in the same manner as mostly every other run this winter — cold, gray, windy, nothing short of unspectacular.
Heading down Main Avenue, trudging through the last mile and deep into our own little world, we were chatting about nothing memorable, when a young man jumped out of his car.
A small piece of paper clenched in his hand, he glanced around, confused at his surroundings.
"Do you know where City Hall is?" he asked.
"Yeah," we answered, pointing down the block. "Just go to the stop sign, turn right, go to the end of the block, turn left, and you'll see it on the right hand side of the road, just a few blocks down."
The directions didn't set in.
"I need to get to City Hall, and I'm late," he said. "Can I drive there? Can I walk?"
We repeated the instructions, and then started discussing the options amongst ourselves, failing to take his hurry to heart.
"If he's driving, maybe it'd be easier to go that way," suggested Ann, pointing the opposite way.
"Doesn't he take a right?" Shelli asked, thinking of the county courthouse.
Colleen shrugged her shoulders, staying out of the fray.
"No, no," I said, "just go down the block, turn right, then left, then it's on the right."
More confused looks.
OK, let's simplify this. Walk or drive?
Walk.
"Can you run?" we asked.
"Yes!" he said.
And with that, the four of us, along with our newfound running partner, took off down Main Avenue, heading for City Hall.
Suddenly, the drudgery of a cold, winter morning run turned into a mission. We had a purpose.
This was most excitement to occur on a run since the December morning when I slipped by the post office and almost got run over.
Not ones to run in silence, we took full advantage of this unknown young man.
Name? Andrew. What are you doing? Taking a test to become a police officer. Where from? Jamaica.
Jamaica?!
"Why'd you come here?" we asked.
"For a girl," he said.
The four of us sighed in unison. A girl.
"She still here?"
"Yes," he said. "That's why I'm trying to find a job."
We all heaved another sigh.
Four middle-aged women. Husbands, kids, houses, dogs, cats. Schedules. Meals. Laundry. Sometimes, it seems the only thrill is escaping together for the daily run.
And, here was Andrew, trading in Jamaica — Jamaica! — for South Dakota because of a girl.
We arrived at City Hall and said a quick farewell.
Bounding down the street, we laughed about Andrew's story, our chance meeting and the sequence of events that dropped him into our life for six blocks.
The pure happenstance of the moment took the ordinariness out of the day and gave a newfound appreciation for our small town and our time together, even if it was only six degrees.
Only in Brookings, South Dakota. Only on a run.

Hope is alive

Yes, hope is alive this morning, and it takes the tangible form of pavement in all its rough, black and gritty glory.
After 6 weeks straight of sub-zero temps with and without the wind chill, we finally begin today the long, slow climb out of winter's abyss.
Oh sure, there will be more cold. There will be more snow. But, there is an imperceptibly tiny taste of the end.
Spring will come.
On a superficial level, the South Dakota winter is like an annual life test. It is hard. It is nasty. It is cold and it is brutal. It knocks you down, kicks you in the teeth and stomps on your back.
You scrape yourself together only to get thrown back down. Survival, at times, seems unlikely. You question your mortality, your fate, your ability to endure.
But, just when it feels as though hell truly has frozen over and you cannot go on another day, patches of pavement start to emerge on the street. The five-foot high snowbanks begin to recede. The thermometer climbs into the teens and low 20s.
And then, driving down Eighth Street South, I see the true splendor of the world unfold before me in the three simple words on the Medary Acres Greenhouse sign:
Dirt is coming.
The sun breaks through the clouds. My heart races. Tears of joy run down my cheeks. Angels sing. A renewed will to live bubbles up from the soul.
Dirt is coming.

Never again?

After walking into the Holocaust museum in Washington, DC, visitors pick up an identification card based on gender.
Each card gives a brief history of a real person who lived during the Holocaust.
I was Bruna Sevini, born Sept. 22, 1923, in Trieste, Italy. My son was Max Rosenblat, born July 1939 in Radom, Poland.
Riding up in the elevator to the fourth flour of the museum to start the tour, we discovered how our assumed lives played out.
While awaiting deportation to Germany, Bruna was in a prison in 1944 when it was hit by an air raid. She and others escaped to a convent, where they were liberated by British troops on Sept. 23, 1944, the day after her 21st birthday.
Max was three-years-old in August 1942, when the Germans rounded up all the Jews in the Radom ghetto where he lived with his parents. Max and his mother were herded into a railroad boxcar and taken to the Treblinka extermination camp. The pair were gassed upon arrival.
Reading our fates gave only a slight hint of the unimaginable hell that was about to unfold before us.
From top to bottom, each floor took us through the sequence of Hitler's rise to power, the rounding up and extinction of Jews, Gypsies and other non-Ayrians, the world's slow reaction to the horror, and finally, thankfully, Hitler's downfall and the liberation of those left.
Throughout the exhibit, photos and artifacts chronicled one of the bleakest moments in world history.
There were piles of musty, leather shoes taken from prisoners as they arrived at concentration camps. There was a table, upon which dead prisoners were laid and the gold from their teeth extracted. There was a boxcar used for transporting men, women and children to their death. There were crude, wooden bunkbeds, where prisoners slept five and six to a bed.
The misery of the Holocaust journey played out in every step, on every wall, in every room.
We left the museum through an exhibit on Darfur, where an estimated 3 million people have been displaced and more than 200,000 killed since 2003 in a scorched earth campaign of murder, torture and rape of civilians. Some reports put the numbers even higher.
And so, here we are, in 2009, only 65 years after the Allied troops liberated concentration camp victims.
Never again? Hardly. Think Bosnia and Serbia. Think Rwanda. Now Darfur.
The first link below will send a postcard to President Obama, urging him to abide by his campaign promise to stop the genocide in Darfur.
The second is a petition to the UN secretary general, asking him to take several key steps to ending the atrocities against the people of Darfur and the devastation of their country.
http://addyourvoice.org/?utm_campaign=Postcard&utm_source=savedarfur.org&utm_medium=textlink
http://action.savedarfur.org/campaign/savedarfurcoalition