Last week I wrote about the surreal juxtapositions of life
writ large, the disconnect between the horrific acts of terrorism in Paris with
a night on the town, and the disconnect of rabid refugee fear by politicians
who don’t see the need to protect US citizens from terrorists due to our
obscenely loose gun control laws.
This week I experience juxtapositions of a more personal
nature. Even as I gear up for Thanksgiving and the attendant joy that brings, I
am reminded by the losses in life. November 20 was the National Transgender Day of Remembrance, and at our annual candle-light service commemorating those
lives lost to gender violence, we spoke aloud the names of 71 individuals,
ranging in age from 13-66; live cut short because of Transphobia.
On Sunday, during a service entitled “Imagine There’s No Gender,”
our Story for All Ages focused on the true story of a child named Jazz and how
her family finally understood that, despite biological appearances, Jazz is
really a girl, and not a boy. The book ended with an image of a well-loved
child, accepted for who she was. As I got up to preach following that story, I said
to the congregation, “I don’t know about you, but I got a little verklempt
listening to that story and thinking back on the transfolk whose names we
called on Thursday, who never experienced that acceptance.” I had to pause to
regain my composure as fresh tears gathered in my eyes.
Saturday, November 21, was International Suicide Survivor Day. A day for those of us who have lost a loved one to suicide to gather
together for support. Of course, I carry this juxtaposition with me every day.
Running the Disneyland Half Marathon in September, I was pulled out of my
solitary focus on my breathing, on my sense of wonder as a great throng of us
made our way through the streets of Fantasy Land when I pulled up to a woman
with a t-shirt bearing a picture of a man on the back and the declaration that she was running in memory of this person-- her son, I think. Above that photo was the
logo for the American Foundation for the Prevention of Suicide. It was a moment
of connection, a tangible sense of recognition in a crowd of over 15,000 strangers.
I touched the runner softly on her shoulder as I passed her.
“Nice shirt,” I said. Then, on an impulse, showed her the
tattoo on the inside of my left forearm, the
purple and teal Suicide Awareness
ribbon plainly visible. “My brother,” I explained, and then ran on, the magic
of the race still intact, maybe even more so for that moment of seeing and
being seen.
As many of you know, I belong to a Sibling Survivors of Suicide group on Facebook. In this group, we all can share the bright and dark juxtapositions we encounter in our new realities.
On one particularly hard day, just a year shy of the first
anniversary of my brother’s suicide I posted this on the wall of that support
group:
July
3, 2014
For
some reason, this week has been really hard for me. No anniversaries or
triggers-- just one second away from crying, every second of the day. I feel
like this page is a parallel universe for me. "Out there" in the
"real" facebook world, everything is bright and sunny, and my posts
are political or funny; then I sneak away and enter here-- it is a darkened
room, or cave-- and am drawn to the circle of
this group, where there are candles lit and our voices murmur words of anguish
and comfort and hope. This is a universe no one knows, except for those of us
who live in these shadowlands, and I hope there will be no one else who has to
discover it, though I take comfort in knowing we will be there for them, when
they stumble through this portal for the first time.
In that group, we can share the hidden juxtaposition of our losses, that the rest of the world, for the most part, doesn't see.
This
International Suicide Survivors Day there was an event held locally, but I didn’t
go; I chose
My brother, Erik, bib 1517
instead to run a 5K, in honor of my brother who was an avid runner
in his young adulthood. I ran the best I’ve run in a long time. I was
jubilantly happy, even as I felt the shadow of grief.
That
afternoon, I gathered with a large multi-faith group from four downtown
churches and we did a hymn-crawl, starting at one church, singing four songs of
that particular faith tradition, and then going to the next in line, until we
ended up at All Souls. The over-arching theme was “Healing,” and each church
had a sub-theme. Those themes were peace, safety, community healing, and love.
Each of the songs we sang seemed especially poignant in the wake of the Paris
attacks, and each felt personally relevant to me, as well, as I tenderly
explored the familiar trappings of grief.
Juxtapositions
abound.
And
next up is Thanksgiving. Certainly, there is much in my life for which I am
grateful: a kind and tender son, my mom and sisters, and the extended family
branching out from my particular family tree, chosen family who love and accept
me just as I am, a hearth and home that provides shelter and a sense of
grounding, possibilities that await me, as yet unseen, mirthfully waiting to
jump out and yell, “Surprise!” just as I round the corner where they hide.
I
will be preaching on “What’s So Amazing About Grace?” this Sunday, taking a
look at how grace, mercy, hope show up in our lives.
Over
the next few days I plan to eat too much, and drink wine, and laugh and laugh
with friends, and tell stories and reminisce with family. I will raise a toast
to my brother, Erik, gone almost 2 ½ years now, and to my step-dad, Jim, and
Uncle By—this, our first Thanksgiving without these two men—and feel the sadness
mix with joy, the grief with delight, the juxtapositions in this life we lead,
knowing both exist fully present in my heart, in my body, and both have shaped
me into the person I am today.
As
(Saint) Mary Oliver wrote in her poem, We Shake with Joy:
We Shake with Joy
We shake with joy, we
shake with grief.
What a time they have,
these two housed as
they are in the same
body.
(from Evidence, Beacon
Press, 2010) The joy and the grief, we each hold them, tenderly juxtaposed in the chambers of our hearts. And here's what's also true: in the midst of the pleasure and pain, the sorrow and delight, we are, none of us, alone.Perhaps you're experiencing some of these juxtapositions, yourself: the gaiety of holiday parties and the grief of a loss. If this holiday season finds you spending too much time wandering the darkened corridors of despair or depression, if you can't seem to find the way back to the light, reach out; there is help. Here are a few numbers to get you started:
It’s 5:30 in the morning and I have
long since given up trying to go back to sleep, having awakened at 2:15. I tried
listening to meditative music, and counting backwards from 300, and keeping my
mind blank, but nothing has worked. So, instead of fighting this insomnia, I am
choosing to look at it as a bonus; I’ve got a few extra hours to be conscious
and alert, a few extra hours found tucked away in this deep night which I can
use to reflect on the mysteries of life and death and all the ways we dance
with these two partners, all the juxtapositions of joie de vivre and the
macabre we’re forced to navigate every day.
Like virtually every other person on the planet with access
to global media, I’ve been thinking about the terrorist attacks in Paris last
Friday. When it happened, I was in New York City, ultimately on business, but
front-loading pleasure, seeing two Broadway musicals with a friend. I was
without a computer, and only had my smartphone as a link to the larger world;
it was all I needed, as it turns out. I read reports of bombs and attacks and
hostages being held, but it wasn’t until I was going into the theatre for that
night’s show that the gravity of the situation began to truly unfold.
I was seated in the Al Hirschfield theatre ready to watch “Kinky
Boots,” a mainly light-hearted and
funny take on the true story of a failing shoe
company that revitalized itself by making sturdy, fashionable, sexy boots
for drag queens. The mood in the theatre was festive; there was lots of sparkly
clothing to be seen. I bought a sassy shirt and posted a picture of it on Facebook.
On Facebook I saw more of the horror that was going on in Paris. I posted that
my thoughts and prayers were with Paris.
Juxtapositions. Terror and death, comedy and theatrics. 129
people were killed and the musical was hilarious
.
The next evening, after a full day in a leadership training
conference put on by the Metro NYC UU chapter, I was seated in JFK airport
waiting for my flight home. I was eating dinner in a sports bar where there
were several flat screen televisions showing different sporting events; in a
nod to current events, one was tuned to non-stop coverage of events in Paris. The
whole thing felt so surreal. On three screens, side by side, I was watching a
football game, a weight-lifting competition, and scenes from Paris of those
wounded, the buildings destroyed, interviews with survivors. As I
unrolled my
napkin, the cutlery tumbled to the table: a stainless steel fork and a plastic
knife---reminders of another day of terror.
Juxtapositions. Sports and suicide bombers. Commentary on a
weight-lifter’s goal and the names of those who were killed.
And of course now, everyone on social media is weighing in--as are leaders of nations, states and countries-- arbitrarily linking the Daesh attacks with the Syrian refugee crisis, calling on the US government to renege on our promise of welcoming 10,000 refugees in. Some of the more obvious bits of irony are memes that say, "If only there were a seasonally appropriate story about a poor Middle Eastern family seeking refuge and being turned away" and the one that asks, "Whatever happened to your demand that #alllivesmatter?" The most curious juxtaposition, though, is the strident cry of many politicians and presidential wannabees, the
clamor of over half the governors—all Republicans-- in our country to block
Syrian refugees from entering the United States or—worse, really—to only allow “Christian”
refugees, while sending “Muslim” refugees away. What I don’t understand is that
the vast majority of these governors govern states that get an “F” in gun safety laws and
have resisted efforts to put smarter gun control laws into place in the wake of
tragic shooting after tragic shooting by predominantly white United States citizens
who claim Christianity as their religion; in the face of statistics that tell
us we lose 36 people a day to gun violence in this country. If these governors,
and presidential wannabees are really concerned about protecting the good
people of the
United States, should they not first look to putting safety guidelines
in place that can protect us from the most viable, persistent threat, which is
ourselves?
Juxtapositions. Radicals from an extremist group in another
country attack venues in Paris, 129 people are killed. Politicians want to ban
all Syrians fleeing from those same terrorists while in the United States that
many people are killed by guns in just 3 ½ days and those same politicians
actively resist smarter gun safety laws.
This is the bizarro world in which we live, in which we try
to seek meaning and find our rhythm in this dance of life, which is difficult
at best, since we never know when death is going to cut in.
No wonder I can’t sleep.
And that’s just covers the main juxtaposition
du jour. There are others in my life, as I’m sure there are in yours.
So what’s to be done? We can’t control the racist undertones
of much of the rhetoric surrounding the Syrian refugees but we can control our
own response to the tragedy in Paris as it continues to unfold, the tragedy of violence
in our own country that we continue to ignore, and the tragedy of the deadly
war in Syria from which so many are fleeing for their lives.
We can recognize in these multiple tragedies, our own shared
humanity. We can pick up trash when we take a walk around the block and buy
coffee for the person in line behind us at Starbucks. We can not care about the
color of Starbucks holiday cups. We can hold our loved ones tighter, we can
reach out to those who look or speak differently than we do. We can make new
friends. We can hide the posts of those on Facebook who want to rant about politics
in a way that does violence to our spirits; we don’t have to engage them in
debate, we don’t have to unfriend them (since many of these people may be much
beloved family members and friends) but we don’t have to see those posts come
up in our Facebook feed. We can turn off the non-stop coverage of these
tragedies. We can see Kinky Boots or the new Peanuts movie. We can read poetry.
We can even, as Barbara Brown Taylor tells us, read poetry to trees. We can
love, fully and freely and without fear. We can.
We can never guarantee our safety, no matter where we are,
or how heavily we arm ourselves or build blockades to keep others out, but we
can guarantee our serenity, our peace of mind by choosing to let go of those
fears and instead embrace this life, this dance, sometimes leading and
sometimes following, but always sure of our own footing, no matter where the
dance may take us.
Look at that: it’s 7:00 AM now; I guess I’ll put the coffee
on.
Recently I was talking with a friend about Mary Oliver’s
latest book of poetry, Felicity. I think this might be my favorite volume of
her poetry and, upon receiving it, instantly devoured it, hungrily taking in
her rich and evocative images and words. My friend, who has only recently
started reading it said, “I am slow reading it, so I don’t become an Oliver
glutton.”
Her words got me to thinking about our culture of instant
gratification; in an era where we can instantly download the latest book or
movie we hear about onto our laptops, or tablets, or phones, taking things slow
is almost unheard of. It takes patience and a certain amount of intestinal
fortitude to let something unfold slowly—particularly if it’s something as
wonderful as a new book of poetry. There
is a frisson of anticipation I get when something good seems to be crackling in
the air, as electric as lightning that strikes close enough to thrillingly
illuminate without danger of causing harm.
It’s akin to the “quickening” that happens about midway
through pregnancy. This is the moment when the mother first feels the stirrings
of life inside her. For me, it happened at about the five month mark. I was
worried because I thought it should have happened sooner, and I wondered if I,
in my lack of knowledge had experienced it and didn’t realize it. Then it
happened one night, just as I was drifting off to sleep: a fluttering, as of
butterflies--or butterfly kisses-- that elicited an immediate, visceral
reaction of exultant joy! There was life in me! There was something new being
created within me-though as yet unseen to the world, and felt only by me! And,
as excited and impatient as I was for this new life to be revealed, I could
only wait, unable to force the process to go faster. I had to “slow read.” I
had felt life stirring but it would be months before Sam would be born in his
own time. And those months, too, held rich experiences that I’m glad I didn’t
miss.
As I reflect on that sense of “quickening” I realized I have
experienced that exact same sensation at other seminal moments of my life. I’ve
felt that same butterfly sensation in the moment when I realized I was falling
in love with someone, I experienced it when I had the epiphany of my sexual
orientation and my call to ministry. These, too, are moments of gestation when
I suddenly felt the existence of new life and all the possibilities on the
horizon—as yet unseen by others. And these, too, required slow reading. These,
too, were rich experiences not to be rushed through, but to be savored; to be
in the charged atmosphere of change, without hiding in fear of being struck or
trying to control where and when the lightning would, indeed, land; to succumb
to the delicious, sometimes agonizing unfolding of possibilities, trusting the
outcome would be what it was supposed to be.
Or, as Mary Oliver instructs us in her first poem in Felicity:
Don’t Worry
Things take
the time they take. Don’t
Worry.
How many
roads did St. Augustine follow
Before
he became St. Augustine.
So, I will try to remember to slow read important parts of
my life, experience the quickening with all its excitement and let it be, all
the while being open to those times when life and circumstances shout “take
risks! Dive in! Be headstrong!” These, Mary also advocates in her new book:
I Did Think,
Let’s Go About This Slowly
I did think,
let’s go about this slowly.
This is
important. This should take
Some really
deep thought. We should
Take
Small thoughtful
steps.
But, bless
us, we didn’t.
I guess the
trick is in knowing when to slow read and when to dive in, and feeling that frisson of anticipation of the new
life and possibilities, the new quickenings that await me, still—long past my
child-rearing years--if I am open to them.
I was chatting with an old friend recently when, suddenly,
she uttered a single sentence that changed my life: “Looks like you’re getting
some gray hair,” she said as she pulled at my “sideburns.”
“Really?” I squealed with excitement! I was ecstatic! A
milestone had been reached!
I clearly started life as a buttery blonde
Admittedly, I’m weird. I still recall how ebulliently I
reacted when, at the age of 42, I was told by my optometrist that I would need
progressive lenses for my glasses. In fact, I uttered the same word, with the
same excitement: “Really?” I then added, “This makes me a real adult!” (Note:
that was also the visit to the optometrist when, a little annoyed at having to
fill out the contact information page once again, on the line where it asked, “preferred
name” I wrote Bunny. I would like to point out that neither at that
particular visit to the eye doc, nor on any subsequent visit, was I ever called
Bunny; this clearly shows the futility of filling out that form.)
1976. Still blonde
Back to the gray hair sighting. Full disclosure: I get my hair
highlighted twice a year. It’s never been to cover up gray but rather to add
some vitality to the increasingly dish watery color of my blonde hair.
I was hoodwinked. There is no other explanation. As a child, I had that white tow-headed
look, hinting at my Norwegian ancestry
(though my Nordic dad was dark and
swarthy) but the older I got, the darker my hair got. It's not that dark hair is bad, it's just that mine seemed to lose its luster as the buttery hues of blonde slipped away.
My son, Sam, is suffering a similar fate: his tow-headed
look has gotten increasingly darker as the years have gone by. At least his hair is luxuriously thick and still has depth that my fine, thin hair can never attain.
By senior prom, 1980, it was all over.
So for the past several years I have gotten my hair
high-lighted and each time my hair interpreter triumphantly proclaims, “still
no gray hair!” I’ve always been a little crestfallen at this pronouncement
meant as a compliment.
I have always loved hair in permutations of the gray scale:
salt and pepper, gray, white, silver. In fact, when I look back on the women I’ve
dated, or been attracted to, over the past 37 years, I find no “type” in terms of age, race, body
type, femme or butch; I seem to have dated across the spectrum. There is,
however, one commonality that appears throughout the years: I’m clearly attracted
to women with gray, silver, white, mixed hair.
I think this is because I must have imprinted on the first
woman I fell truly in love with. At the
age of 22 she had jet black hair with lightning bolts of silver thrumming through
it. Although the love was unrequited, my fate, it seemed, was sealed.
Sam clearly blonde a age 6
I have never dreaded the graying of me; rather I have eagerly awaited its advent. Now, finally, at the ripe age of 53, I am able to proudly
join the ranks of the Gray! What does
this mean, I wondered as I drove home from my friend’s house. I prodded my mind like a loose tooth;was I any wiser?
I gently palpated my heart from within;did
I understand more about love and compassion?
Maybe those things
take time. Or maybe graying hair is a function of age, while not necessarily being a harbinger of wisdom.
Already much darker, and he's still young!
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a frisson of excitement as I looked
at my hair in the bathroom mirror and asked another friend to take a picture of
this august moment in time. The next week, when I went for my quarterly haircut,
semi-annual high-lighting session, Jerome, my hair interpreter, said “Still no
gray hair!” as he wrapped my hair in foil.
“Yes, there is!” I said happily as I showed him my
sideburns. I felt inordinately proud, as if I had done something that had taken
infinite skill or herculean strength, rather than simply growing older. Still, I did earn every one of those gray
hairs—and all the ones to come. Now I really am an adult!
This
past Saturday, I ran 2.1 miles—it was my first attempt at running since my last
half marathon on September 6. I had mysteriously injured my lower back the week
before that race and, probably against my better judgment, I went ahead with
the race, even though my back was spasming and getting out of bed was a chore.
It
was at Disneyland, I had paid $200 to register—not to mention the cost of flying
out and staying in a hotel; dammit, I would
finish the race if it was the last thing I did!! So I awoke at 4 AM on Sunday,
September 6, took 800 mg of ibuprofen and walked (hobbled) in the pre-dawn
darkness from my hotel to Downtown Disney where my last half marathon of the
summer was to commence.
I remember when I first decided to run four half marathons over the summer. It
was last December and I was a part of a Facebook running group called CJ’sHoliday Challenge. I am not sure how I stumbled upon it, but I was glad I found
it. It was focused on the two months between Thanksgiving and January 25th,
and led by Coach Jenny Hadfield, a well known running coach in the “real world.”
The group was geared to folks of all ages and running abilities and was simply
there to encourage people not to lose track of their fitness and running goals
during the busy (and fattening) holiday seasons.
Before
I joined this group I was an uninspired runner; I tried to get in three runs a
week, but they weren’t very long (no more than three miles), nor were they
consistent. I did try to sign up for a 5K “race” each month, to keep me
motivated. I put “race” in quote marks because I surely wasn’t trying to win,
but I did get a racing bib,as well as a t-shirt (generally) and it was timed.
But being a part of this group opened my eyes to bigger possibilities.
Suddenly, I was seeing posts from people who ran at my pace (a 13 minute mile)
who were doing 10Ks and half marathons and even FULL marathons! If they could
do it, why couldn’t I? I was going on sabbatical from June 1-September 10. Why
not do a half marathon a month during that time, among other sabbatical plans?
I
shared my idea with the group and asked, “Am I crazy?” The answer was an
unreserved, “Yes!!” But, the other members added, in a good way. Why not go for
it? A few even pointed out that I could become of a member of the Half Fanatics
if I accomplished this feat.
So
I cemented my plan by putting it boldly in my Winter holiday letter and even
proclaiming it from the pulpit in a New Year’s sermon. By mid-February I had
picked out and paid for all four of my races. I was firmly committed.
When
friends would ask me why I chose to undertake such a daunting mission during my
sabbatical, I found it hard to explain. I truly felt called to do this. I wasn’t
doing it for fame or glory; it certainly wasn't to get more attention (as an introvert, I
spend my time finding ways to NOT be the center of attention!) All I could say
was that I was going to learn things I needed to learn during the training
leading up to the races, and in the races themselves. Honestly, I was feeling a
little tredipatious, myself, about the undertaking but as March came around, I
begin training in earnest.
Now,
on the other side of this endeavor, I can see clearly the lessons learned in
the training, the races, and the conversations in between.
Lesson
#1
It
doesn’t matter if anyone else believes in you; it only matters if you believe
in yourself.
I
first began to realize during my training that there were some people—caring
people involved in my life—that didn’t really expect me to make it to my first
half marathon, let alone getting through all four. People who met my stated training
goals with disbelief,
and my accomplishment of them with sheer amazement. I
remember saying to one friend, after I had completed my first double digit mile
training run, “You didn’t really expect me to do that, did you?” She admitted
she had been surprised that I had done so.
Now,
to be fair, I was a little surprised by my own tenacity. It would have been
much easier to keep putting off those long runs; they took up so much time! I’m
slow on a good day and my average pace, as the miles increased, got slower and
slower. Do you know how long it takes for me to run 10 miles? 2:15 hours!! That
takes a lot of planning in order to make sure I had time in the day to run it! It
was daunting to me but I kept faith in myself and steadily increased my miles
until, four weeks before my first race, I ran 12.4 miles on a long Saturday
morning. I came home from that run and, as I was gulping down an electrolyte
enhanced drink, suddenly burst into tears. The reality hit home then, I was doing it! I was actually training
consistently for a half marathon! All those years of being non-athletic,
all the friends who didn’t think I would actually follow through, all the times
I doubted myself, were washed away in those tears. At the moment, my own belief
in myself took a secure hold. It would carry me through a summer of injuries,
illness, and travel that interfered with my on-going training and it would ultimately
carry me through that last, rough half marathon in Disneyland.
Lesson
#2
The
race isn’t about the starting line or the finish line; it’s about those lonely miles
in between.
There’s
a certain sense of excitement when the gun goes off and the race commences. For
a while, I’m in the thick of a pack of runners, with many runners passing me and
me passing some as well as we all jockey for position and find our paces.
Knowing that I’m a slow runner, I always start somewhere near the back of the
pack. If there was a pacer holding a three hour sign, I’d position myself
behind that person, since my goal was to break three hours.
And
then the race would begin! And we would run through a crowd of cheering friends
and family members onto the course! Soon—within a mile or two—we would all be
in our respective places that we would hold for virtually the rest of the race.
I would find myself playing “leap-frog” with one or two of the other runners at
my pace. I might steadily overtake them (think of that annoying moment on the
freeway when an 18 wheeler pulls slowly into the left lane to pass another 18
wheeler, going about .5 miles faster an hour than the truck being passed; it
takes a long time for that pass to actually get completed) and then when my
watch beeps to tell me to take my one minute walk break, they would slowly
overtake me.
It’s
not crowded where I am, in the middle miles. Far ahead of me are the faster
runners; if it’s an “out and back” course the fastest racers will be passing me
at about the half way mark. Behind me are runners even slower than me, including
those who walk the races. This leaves me in a solitary place with only my leap
frog buddies to keep me company.
And
it is in those miles, where I’m alone, where there is no one to cheer me on,
where the only sound is that of my somewhat labored breathing, that the true
race is run. Ultimately I will reach that glorious 13 mile marker and put what
little I have left of any reserves into play and run across the finish line
where still a crowd waits to cheer me in! And then I will dazedly lower my head
to accept my finisher’s medal and head for the cups of water waiting, but I
know the only reason I got there is because I slogged along in those lonely
middle miles, persistently putting one foot in front of the other, even when
there was no one to witness my efforts.
Lesson
3
Sometimes
you can’t quite reach your goal. You can choose to focus on how much you missed
it by or how close you came.
My
first half marathon was June 6 in Moab, UT. It was the Thelma and Louise half—so
named because the course ran along the Colorado River in the location where the
final scene was shot in that iconic movie. I was nervous b
"Flat Nori" ready for Thelma and Louise
ecause shortly after
I had done my 12.4 training run, I had seriously injured my right knee. I had taken it easy for a few weeks but when
I ran six miles the week before the race, the pain was so great that I had to
call a friend to pick up, a couple of miles from home.
I
had gone to a physical therapist twice in the week before that first race, and
my knee was taped up using the kinesio tape, which is all the rage now, to help
prevent injuries. Right before the race I downed 400 mg of ibuprofen; I was as
prepared as I could be. The course was beautiful and the taping and the drugs
evidently helped because I didn’t really feel any pain until about mile 9. Then
it came on with a vengeance. I stayed with my pace of run 3 minutes, walk one
minute, the entire time and was pretty impressed with my final time of 3:05:41.
Unfortunately,
my knee was incredibly injured and I spent the next four weeks before my second
race focusing on doing physical therapy for strength and recuperation and did
very little actual running prior to the Fourth of July race in the Colorado
Springs. Subsequently, my time was worse—I finish
July 4th "Flat Nori"
ed at 3:11:46. I was
discouraged but it couldn’t be helped. At mile 11, my legs simply quit working
on me. At that point, I switched the tempo to running 1 minute and walking 3.
That was the most miserable race ever!
Then
came my third half—the Georgetown to Idaho Springs race. Billed as a fast race
because it ultimately is a downhill race, there were several steep uphill
portions, too. On a positive note, although I was much slower in my second race
than my first, my knee didn’t hurt at all! The on-going PT was really working!
On a negative note, I had gotten a
miserable, intractable cold that had kept me in bed for the better part of two
weeks in between race two and three. Once again, my training runs suffered. One
well-meaning friend (and a “real” runner) tried to convince me to forgo this
race and just focus on getting faster for the grand finale in September. I
thanked her for the advice but told her I was planning on running that third
race, even if I had to crawl over the finish line.
Proudly displaying medal for Georgetown
Instead,
I had the best run of the summer! I felt like I was flying down the mountain. I
abandoned the run/walk ration of 3:1 and just ran until I felt the need to
walk. Once again, however, mile 11 proved to be my nemesis. This time, I
started to experience cramps in my left calf that caused the toes on my left foot
to spasm. When that would happen, I would slow to a walk until it stopped, then
start running again.
I
crossed the finish line triumphantly with a final time of 3:00:47. Yes, that
means I was just 48 seconds shy of my goal of a sub-3 hour half! At first I was
disappointed. I kept replaying those final 2.1 miles, knowing if my calf hadn’t
started to cramp, I would have taken less walk breaks. Then I realized that
3:00:47 is a GREAT time for me! And, if I didn’t make my goal, at least I
finished with my knee intact and with the best effort I could give. I posted
the results on the CJ Challengers page and was met with enthusiastic
congratulations. More importantly, I had a good race; a race that was actually
fun to run!'
Lesson
#4
Run
fast, but don’t miss the magic.
This
brings me back to where I started this post: a pre-dawn start in Downtown
Disney with an injured back. I had hoped, following my triumphant third race,
that the Disneyland Half marathon would be my crowning glory: a half marathon at
sea level, with much better pre-race training runs. Instead, I entered this
last race more nervous than I had been before any of the other three.
There
were over 15,000 runners and we were set loose in corrals of hundreds of people
eight minutes apart. The race began at 530 AM but it was just past 6 when my
corral was finally released. At first, I tried my best to get ahead of the
crowd, even though veterans of the race had told me the night before that this
was not a race to try for a PR due to so many runners on the course. Still, I
dodged around slower people, jumped up onto the sidewalk when it got too
congested and was generally not having a very good time, although I was very
determined. I did my best running, initially, not even taking any walk breaks
until after I had run steadily for more than 30 minutes; still I was getting
nowhere fast. That’s
when I noticed what many of the other runners were doing. The first few miles
of the race took us through the streets of Disney California Adventure and then
onto the streets of the Magic Kingdom itself. Even at that early hour, hundreds
of workers lined the course to cheer us on and many characters were also there—Mickey,
Minnie, and their gang; Beauty and The
Beast, and their gang; Buzz Lightyear!
Woody! All of the big names were out to cheer us on! And runners were pausing
from their race to line up 20 deep in order to have their picture taken with
these luminaries.
In this first video, you can see me as I run out of the castle at about the :10 mark, on the far right of the crowd. It's clear by my gait that there is something wrong with me!
That’s when I got it. I realized how for the past three races, essentially all summer, I had been focused on the stress, the injuries, the doubts. I had worried about, rather than rejoiced in, the races. I had spent a lot of time trying to justify to some people why I was running this series, rather than just soaking in the congratulations of others.
For
me, doing these four half marathons had never been about getting progressively
faster; it’s always been about just doing them, not letting any excuse stop me.
That’s why I registered early and why I broadcast my intent. After all, it would
have been easy for me to opt out of any or all of these races at the last
minute; that I didn’t do that was the victory.
In this second video, you can see me at about the :20 mark, on the side closest to the announcer. I have given up trying to run and am just soaking in the magic.
It
was at that moment of realization in that final race, that I stopped jockeying
for a better position and just took in the magic that is Disney. I snapped a
couple of photos of my own as I “raced” along. I took in the cheering Disney
workers and characters and the beauty of running through the streets of the
Happiest Place on Earth. As we left the park and headed down the streets of
Anaheim, I applauded the bands and dance teams and car clubs that lined the
streets to cheer us on. When we made it to Angel Stadium and headed down onto
the field, it felt as if we were taking a victory lap; hundreds of people in
the stands were cheering us on as the official game announcer welcomed us in.
Unfortunately, that was at the 15K mark; we still had 3.7 miles to go.
Towards
the end there were several places where cheerleaders were doing chants for us,
and I felt as if they were directed specifically to me. “We are proud of you!
We are proud of you!” and “We are the champions, my friend!”
It occurred to me that I really had done it: I had completed four half marathons in four months. I had trained consistently until injuries and illnesses sidelined me, but even then, I never gave up. The victory was mine. I wasn't the fastest in my age group, I never broke the three hour time, and I was beset by complications that slowed me down, but never held me back. And at the end of that final race, as I hobbled back to my hotel room, I could be proud. Proud that I had, ultimately, crossed the finish line I had set before me, all those months ago.
This commercial captures exactly how I felt at the end!
EPILOGUE
On
Monday, September 7, I was back at home. Although my back was worse than
before, I had gotten out of bed early to cheer on my friend, Cate, who was
running the American Discovery Trail half marathon here in Colorado Springs.
This race was an out and back, beginning in America the Beautiful park and
going north for 6.55 before the turn around back to the where it began. Cate is
a seasoned runner and had been training hard all summer for this race. She suggested
that, if I wanted to cheer her on (and I did; she had been my faithful
cheerleader at all but my final race the day before) to be waiting at the 4
mile mark (which was also about mile 9 on the way back.) So I made my way to
that mile marker, at Goose Gossage park.
Once
the first and fastest runners came
through, I tried to guess about when she’d be by, based on the pace estimates
she’d given me. Sooner than I expected she came zipping along, going fast and
looking great. After she left, I cheered on the other runners, while I waited
for her to return. I looked at my watch, at one point and figured out that the
next batch of runners would be about where I would be, if I had been running that
race, and sure enough here they came. Some were doing the sort of disciplined
run/walk ratio that I did, others were running and then walking intermittently.
All of them looked exhausted but determined. I cheered especially loud for
them, knowing what it felt to be at mile four, with the bulk of the race ahead.
Soon after “my” group passed along, Cate came winging back. I stayed long
enough to encourage her then got in my car and sped to the finish line so that
I could greet her there.
It
was hard to walk, my back was spasming and I was giving out little Tourette shrieks
of pain every time it did. But as I waited for Cate, I reflected on my own
journey that summer, the lessons I learned, the experiences I had. If you had
told me just four years earlier when I first laced up a pair of running shoes
and started a couch to 5K program, that I’d be running four half marathons in a
single summer, I would have laughed out loud. Yet, here I was. I thought of
those in my pace group still struggling on the course that morning and mentally cheered
them on some more.
Soon Cate crossed the finish line. At age 56,
she had not only placed first in her age group, she had set a new PR for
herself, with a time of 1:52:14- a 8:34 mile. She writes about that experience eloquently in her own blog, Meditatio Ephemera So that’s another lesson I
learned vicariously: you’re never too old to set a new PR.
Over
this past month, as I’ve gone multiple times to the chiropractor, and have
focused on recuperating, I have to say, I was so glad to not have a race in
October. I doubt I’ll ever do so many distance races in such a short time
again! But I might do the Georgetown to Idaho Springs race next year; there’s still
those 48 seconds I need to lose. And I would definitely do another Disney half-- only next time I will make sure to focus on the magic from the start.
A few weeks ago I traveled to Kansas to celebrate my 35th
(!) high school reunion. The festivities were held on Friday and Saturday night
in Topeka, where I grew up, but Sunday I was to go to my sister Lori’s in
Lawrence, KS. We had a full day planned: a first birthday party for my
grand-niece, Averie, and a birthday dinner for my 26 year old niece, Rachael.
But Lori wanted the day to start with church. Her daughter,
Rachael, had discovered a new church and had told her mom about it. I first
heard of this church a few months ago when Lori and I were on the phone. “It’s
contemporary and really simple,” Lori had said, “There’s just a few songs, the
sermon, a prayer and a closing song. Then you’re done.”
She went on to rave about the rock band and the casual
appearance of the ministers, their fun use of videos and their small group
ministries. I was pleased she and Rachael had found a church where they could feel comfortable, though I was not sure I wanted to attend; I worried
about the theology. In my experience, “contemporary” non-denominational churches
with praise bands and coffee bars have a conservative, evangelical bent that
focus on “loving the sinner and hating the sin.”
Still I was curious about this church and so I
headed to Lawrence after getting in an early morning run. Lori was especially
excited to tell me about what the topic of the sermon just happened to be for
my visit: Gay marriage.
Great.
Still, I gamely smiled and marched like a good little
soldier into the Lawrence theatre where Eastlake Church rents space each Sunday
morning. My niece, Rachael met us there.
“Did Mom tell you what the service is on today,” she asked with a big smile. When I said yes, she responded, “I’m 90% sure we won’t have to worry
about what they’ll say.”
This made me feel a little better, but as the lights dimmed
and the young members of the band walked on stage, I felt my gut tighten.
Listening closely to the lyrics of the praise songs (like any good Unitarian
Universalist would do) I felt my sense of unease growing. One song mentioned
over and over again, how the singer would call to Jesus from a miry pit, “rescue
me! Deliver me!” This sounded a lot like something ex-gay ministries would tout—Jesus
can save us from the pit of homosexuality.
Finally the lead minister, Matt, came out and began his 40
minute talk. This was the last of a four part sermon series called “Survey Says” and each
week, one of the ministers would address questions people wanted answered. This
talk actually addressed four questions: would there be an increase in
persecution of Christians in America, Is there a heaven and hell, If I’m afraid
to die does that threaten my salvation and the Big One: What Do You Believe
About Gay Marriage?
As Matt spoke, even though I really appreciated his
perspective (for the first question he said people voting differently than you is
not persecution, it’s democracy, and atheists are not anti-Christian, they’re
anti-asshole, they’re anti-douche bag) I still kept waiting for the other shoe
to drop.
Finally he got to the marriage issue and when he said he
believed in marriage equality and all three ministers would be available to
officiate at any legally sanctioned marriage, I thought I was going to burst
into tears. I mean seriously.
You have to understand that for most of my ministry I was with MCC-- a predominantly queer Christian denomination-- and I can't recall how many times someone walked through the doors of that church, broken and beaten down by their former church's interpretation of homosexuality. I couldn't tell you how many times they had to recover from being told they had to be ex-gay, in ordered to be loved by their god. So maybe my trepidation that Sunday morning at Eastlake Church was understandable. Even though by then what Matt would say shouldn’t have been a surprise, I still didn’t trust where the message was going. I thought he’d say, gays and lesbians are welcome but marriage is between one man and one woman.
Instead he fully affirmed the human dignity and worth of
queer folk, and unequivocally welcomed all into their church. Instead of delving
deep into scriptures and the translations, he offered two links for those who
wondered how he had reached this decision –this one from 2005, written by John
Thomas, then General President of the UCC, and this one by Justin Lee, author
of the book Torn: Rescuing the Gospels from the Gays vs. Christian Debate. In
summary, Matt simply stated that homosexual relationships mean something
different than what was depicted in biblical times and that of all the things Christians were called to, loving one another was chief among them. Then, just as promised, a prayer, a closing song,
and we were out the door.
As the lights came up, I looked at the other folks gathering
up their belongings and exiting; I thought about how many of them might be
struggling with their sexuality or know someone who was. I thought about how
this simple validation in a contemporary Christian church- complete with a rock
band with a thumping bass line might have saved lives that day.
In June I wrote about the historic decision on marriage equality given by the US Supreme Court and I focused on its relevance, on the
struggle to win that fight but I failed to mention the unintended blessings it
would also give: a reason to live. As many of you know, I belong to a facebook
page called Sibling Survivors of Suicide. In the wake of the Supreme Court
ruling, I was amazed to see how many of my fellow siblings posted their joy at
the decision and said that they only wished their brother or sister could have
been alive to witness this day, adding their siblings killed themselves because
they had been gay or lesbian, because they didn’t think their god could love
them, because someone told them they were going to hell, because they had been
bullied in high school- or middle school- because of their sexual orientation,
because they were raised in a culture that said they were second class
citizens, at best.
I thought about how long the journey, how arduous the struggle,
how Sisyphean a task justice-seeking is; and yet, with each small victory
attained, with each nudge that topples the dominoe
s of injustice, somewhere in
some small town, a life is saved, a love is lifted up, and liberty and justice
for all seems, at least in this moment, ours.
That’s what I experienced at Eastlake Church that morning,
as I blinked back tears of joy. And that was at the center of the bittersweet
celebration of the Supreme Court’s decision on my sibling survivor page.
In 2004, long before I could see the unexpected turn this
journey would take, I wrote a paper on Marriage and the Patriarchy, in which I
questioned if that issue should be the building we put our ladder on, but in
the end I believe that this struggle for equality will have ramifications
beyond two people’s decision to say “I do.” Perhaps, by legitimizing love we
can finally begin the process of detaching qualifiers such as gay or straight
marriage and just say marriage. Perhaps, we can begin to dismantle the
hierarchies of love that have held sway for so long. Perhaps then we can join
together, all of us members of the human race, to care for our planet, in all
its diversity, and one another, in all of ours.
Recently, I’ve been very emotional. I
suspect hormones might be in play here, but I can’t talk about Cecil the lion,
recount a moving passage from a book I read nearly a year ago, or watch certain
commercials without getting verklempt. Well, more than verklempt, really; almost on the
verge of ugly crying. I’m serious here.
I’ve always been a touch sentimental but it is getting worse
(better? You be the judge.) There are two things, however, that I have never been
able to talk about for long before the tears well up in my eyes and my throat
constricts with a mass of grief struggling to get out or go deeper in; I’m
never quite sure which: my brother’s suicide and the US AIDS years. Both of
these have created deep canyons in my soul, brimming over with grief. For these
two things, no matter how many tears I cry, I will never be able to empty out
these canyons; there are vast untapped reservoirs waiting, still.
I tapped into one of these canyons last night, while my son,
Sam, and I were watching the movie “RENT.” It’s one of our favorites; we know
all of the songs and sing along, assigning ourselves different parts (you be Mark on this duet, and I’ll be Roger,
and so on.)
Midway through, a song entitled Without You comes on. It focuses primarily on a broken relationship
between two of the main characters—Mimi and Roger—but interspersed with their
montage of heartache is a montage that brings me to tears just writing about it
(see what I mean???) in which an AIDS support group is shown; nothing much-- just
a small circle of people in folding chairs, only as the song goes on, the
people disappear and you understand that they have died.
When the song came on last night, Sam said, very solemnly, “This
is such a sad song.” I, of course, was making that strangled sound you make
when you’re trying not to cry, while tears poured down my face. Sam looked at me
with compassionate concern. I struggled to say, “It’s really sad to me, because
I lived through those years. I lost 33 friends to AIDS and knew many more who
died. And did memorial services for untold numbers.”
“Think of it,” I said. “It would be like you losing 33
Brandons or Sams (friends of his.)”
Suddenly I was struck by the realization that there are many
of us survivors—mainly queer folks, but straight allies, too— for whom those
first 15 years, 1980—1995, (the year Sam was born) when the protease inhibitors
came on the scene and stopped the floodgates of death-- cut deep canyons of
grief, with untapped reservoirs of tears, and now we have children who know
nothing at all about how those years impacted us, impact us still. It’s like
escaping from the pogroms or ethnic cleansing and then going on to have a
family that knows nothing about it.
In some ways, though, it is like the entire country wants us
to keep silent, to move on, and to let it go. Not just now, but then, too,
during those dark days. As one ACT UP activist said, it was like fighting a war
that only the combatants knew about. No one wanted us to talk about it then and no one
wants us to remember—at least not so viscerally—now. Unfortunately, that is
impossible. It is always with us. It moves through the rivers of blood in
our veins, always very close to the surface. I realized that anew last night.
And it got me wondering: how has this history impacted my
parenting? How has the grief shown through the cracks? How can I explain this
to my son in a way that will make sense to him and not just be a dry history lesson?
(Note: intentional pun; no way my eyes will be dry through that conversation.)
I don’t have any answers here, just a clear understanding
that our children, our collective children, need to know about this era in a
deeper way, they need to understand how it changed us, how we are marked, how
we wrestled with the angel of death through that long, long night and now
forever walk with a limp. They need to know, Sam needs to know, the source of
these tears. These tears aren’t related to hormones at all.
