As I was walking six miles yesterday, instead of running
like I had planned, I opened up the dam, and let thoughts wash over me. It was
a good, cleansing ninety minutes. First
in my mind of course were the weekend’s medical events and their ramifications
for myself, my parents, and my children. Then I was thinking of my writing and
how it seems to be flowing more easily, just a week into this daily experiment. And of course I thought about my
running and why right now it is so hard for me.
I have many great people in my life. This really is true. It
wasn’t true for a long time. Twenty years ago, my life was miserable and a lot
of that had to do with being surrounded by awful people. By that I mean people
who should have cared about what was right and safe for me and my daughters but
who chose to put their own interests first and in doing so put me and my girls
at risk. I was young and naïve and for me that translated into really believing
in the Catholic turn-the-other cheek precept. That bullshit, all of it, nearly
killed me.
Since then, I’ve developed a pretty reliable interior creep
meter. I have learned that good is rare. I am careful, probably too careful. People who
know my whole story respect that and understand that it is necessary.
I found my way back then by trusting my interior compass and
mustering strength. It was much more
complicated than that of course. How I found that strength still mystifies me.
I honestly don’t know how I pulled myself back from the abyss. I do know this.
I would have lost my mind and therefore everything without the emotional
support of my parents and my paternal grandmother. I am also grateful for being
able to remember with precision the strength of my maternal grandmother who
passed away many decades ago but whose ability to endure still influences me
today.
I’ve already heard from one dear friend who read yesterday’s
post and has offered to join me in running Boston in the spring if I choose to
do so. Some runners are generous in spirit like that. She and I met years ago when we both worked
in the same clothing shop in a local mall. This was when my youngest first
started college.
I took the job to
keep me occupied and around people. I worked a full-time day job, but I needed
to fill up the dark nights when I’d be home alone. I couldn’t stand to be at
the gym every night. I needed something else. I had started missing my daughter
before she’d even left. I knew I’d be a
wreck if I didn’t find some way to busy myself once she was gone. Also, I’d found out over the summer, just
three weeks before her first semester tuition was due, that her father was not
going to help out and the full tuition burden would fall on my shoulders.
Working in retail doesn’t pay much, but I figured that every little bit would
help. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
The fact that the wording in the above paragraph is somewhat
even and temperate is testament more to the talented Haruki Murakami and his
way with words than it is to my own coping ability. I have a great anger inside me. I admire Murakami’s facility with language
and have been trying to emulate his techniques as a way of bringing forth my
own best work. I’m not trying to be him,
I’m just doing my best to be me. I’m not there yet, so I experiment. This is my
starting line after all, a figurative and literal place where I get to consider
my life, and all its possibilities.
Today, I started writing this because I was waiting for a
phone call that would signal the start of a busy day with lots of hurry up and
then lots of waiting. And now it begins. I’m glad I got to write this. I got to
remember a time when I had the ability to draw on reserves I didn’t know
existed. I’m thankful for that, and many other things too.
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