Horizon

We often focus so much on trying to write the definition to our lives and in the midst of this forget that many times it is life that ends up defining us. The years shape far more than the face in the mirror. Whether there is a method to this madness or not remains unclear. We try to place together the many puzzle pieces of our existance all the while assuming that there is indeed a master blueprint to be followed, a pattern to take shape, a known quantity to be found.

All that can be known is that time does seem to change at least most things. Wounds may heal, but scars are always left behind even when they go unnoticed or ignored. Like wind on stone, we are worn down. Like wood in the hands of the Whittler we are changed in an instant and are never the same again. Contours form where once was youthful innocence. It seems we are much more the sum of our scars than that part of us that remains unscathed.

Free will plays its part, yet more often than not, in reprising its usual role of choosing how to handle circumstance rather than defining the circumstance itself. This uncertain entity we call life trudges perpetually on with a deaf ear turned to both our approval and rejection. We cannot stop moving forward even when we desire nothing more than a momentary pause. What remains is only to choose the direction we want to go. From there we wait to see what mysterious horizon waits to greet our sojourner eyes.

The Station

Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are traveling by train. Out the windows we drink in the passing scenes of cars on nearby highways, or children waving at a crossing, or cattle grazing on a distant hillside, or smoke pouring from a power plant, or row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, or mountains and rolling hillsides, or city skylines and village halls.
But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes for loitering- waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station, that will be it!" we cry. " When i am 18." When I buy my new Mercedes-Benz!" When i put the last kid through college." When i get a promotion." When i read the age of retirement, i shall live happily ever after."
Sooner or later we much realize there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only an illusion. It constantly outdistances us.
So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.

The Merry-Go-Round

They don't have merry-go-rounds anymore. Why is that? Playgrounds are static these days. Everything is safe, bolted down, rustproof. They're paved with squishy material so if there is an unexpected landing by anyone, it is a safe one, no harm done. I'm all for that. But in exchange for safety we have given up merry-go-rounds? Children today never knew the thrill of the merry-go-round. They never knew what it was like to hang on to a metal bar, one foot cemented to the circular wooden platform, the other kicking up speed till everything spun crazily, hanging on tight to keep from flying off. There were no thoughts of landing on hard concrete, of getting concussed or having the wind knocked out of you. There was only spinning trees and the blurred horizon, the still air suddenly whipped into froth; and the pull. A tug so hard it turned your knuckles white with the fighting of it. A tug that wrapped its invisible arms around you, its one hundred invisible arms, and tried pulling and prying you from that speeding platform. It was a pull that made the cells in your body pop with excitement, that made something race around under your skin, made percussion instruments of your internal organs. And instead of screaming in fear, you could only laugh, hysterically, the way you weren't supposed to, inches away from being splattered. And when the world slowed down and the risk of falling ceased, you stuck your foot back out on the earth and pushed and pushed and pushed till the world went around at a dizzying speed again. This time you'd risk a little more: lean out from the platform, tip you head back, close your eyes, and let the day contract into a single great battle between holding on and the temping desire to let go.

 

He Carries Me

I run because of Him.
He is my endurance,
perseverance, and 
inspiration. When I near the end
and my feet coincide with the copious pounding
of my heart. It is Him.

He carries me.

I Hate Track Days

I wish I could explain to you how much I hate track days. Unfortunately, my trainer Keith Wise, makes me train on the track every tuesday, bright and early, at 8am. Preparation for these days usually begin with a aggravated moan as I roll (literally) out of bed at 7:30. I lazily throw my comfortable night clothes on the floor of my room, trading them for an old pair of spandex shorts and a smelly sports bra, all while collecting my hair into a sloppy and careless braid. I usually have time to think about what I'm about to do when I sit down and slap my socks and shoes on my feet. The pain, the agony, the dreadful feeling that my heart is about to explode, those thoughts usually rush through my head.
The thing I hate most about the track is how every single second counts. A 1:42 400-meter is better than a 1:43 400-meter. I can't slow down, I can't give up. I can't even think because it takes too much time. It's the biggest competition known to man: a race against himself; a race against time. And I feel like most runners, especially sprinters know, it's harder than hell to win a race against time.
I am NOT a sprinter. I do not like to sprint more than 100 meters. And when I am forced to sprint longer than 400 meters, i tend to look like a fat kid playing hopscotch. But I suppose that's what its all about, doing the things you don't think you can do.
Running hard enough, there is no such thing. Enough is an operational definition. You can never run hard enough. I guess its better to think about making every second count.
kinda how life should be

Soul Mates

The paradigm for the parable is the story of Adam and Eve. In the book of Genesis, God created Adam as one androgynous being with a complete soul of his own. Then he split Adam in half, creating man and woman, who each possessed half a soul. Only when joined together could they recreate their original wholeness. Adam and Eve, the progenitors of humankind, were the original soul mates- the first blueprint. Plato also advanced the idea of a soul mate. "Platonic love" is not asexual love, as it is commonly understood, but rather the spiritual attraction of one soul to its original mate. Plato considered it the highest form of human love. Some people also describe a "treasury of souls" where souls harmoniously contain both masculine and feminine properties. When a soul decides to inhabit a body- which is the only way it can accomplish its destiny- it must split in two and become a man or a woman. These people believe that, although our soul's purpose is never completely revealed to us, one of the soul's driving forces is to connect with its other half.
Then again, Adam and Eve weren't exactly faced with a wide array of choices. How can we know if we have met out soul mate? Are there any clues? Some people say, "I just know." Sometimes a couple's chemistry is unmistakable-- an intangible connection that transcends physical attraction, almost like a sixth sense. But for many of us, despite the intensity of our romantic feelings, such a clear sense of destiny or fate is missing, and in fact we can never be completely certain. But we learn to listen closer to our instincts and to trust out inner sense. At first glance, our lives may appear to be a series of unrelated events, without purpose, without direction. But if we look back and dissect the pieces of the puzzle, we see that the events that brought us to the present day are more significant than they seemed. What if I never went to that party? What if I didn't miss that plane? What if I wouldn't have eaten lunch at that diner? Individually, these are just tiny details, holding nothing like the weight of destiny. But linked together, they form the quiet miracles that shape and direct our lives, and which we can come to recognize if we pay attention.
We all hope, one day, to meet that special person, the one who seems made just for us. If we've been in a lot of relationships and have yet to find the one where our heart says yes, we may begin to feel despair, feeling we are doomed to be alone. Don't ever be afraid to love someone, just because you've been hurt before. If that describes you, take heart. Destiny may be right next to you and you just don't see it yet.

The Run

 

Most of the time I just like being alone with it.

Because it’s never just a run.

 Its just me and itself,

laid out in front of me in all of its glory.

And once my feet hit cool pavement,

we become one.

As if my rhythmic footsteps are the beat

of a heart in which we share.

Its demands are few,

but strong enough that I can feel them

pushing me,

the wind a solemn hand on my back.

It demands more as I move.

It wants me for all I have,

all I am

because it is jealous,

and unforgiving.

It demands my focus,

my attention,

and I aim for giving it that.

And as the sweat begins to pour down my back,

this is all that I think about.

It listens to me.

It understands my problems,

doubts,

flaws,

weaknesses.
Yet it still wants

all of me.

And when I know I only have a few minutes left,

It lends a hand and pulls me,

Telling me I’m not going to give up,

not going to give in.

And after the final stride,

When I breathe clean air into new lungs,

It sings to me,

and I slowly whisper to myself

 “Good Run.”

But I know it’s never just a run.