Confession: I have struggled with feelings of hatred and fear for a really long time.
Mostly, these feelings are directed at myself or at situations I find myself in. I hate the high arches in my feet. I hate that my gums are receding. I hate that I have a five-head (and I especially hate the scar on said five-head that is in no way a curling iron burn, but everyone stupidly asks that question). I hate the cottage cheese that’s starting to appear on my ass and thighs. I hate that my top half is disproportionately small compared to my bottom half.

Very recently, I took up yoga in a pretty serious way. I went one time with a girl friend about a week ago and have gone every single day since then. Honestly…$75 for unlimited yoga? It was an easy sell for me, even with my very limited budget. I don’t know how it happened, but during one of my classes, I just started thinking while I was breathing: “Peace and love in; Hatred and fear out.” I think it’s become my mantra.

And it’s started helping my understand and appreciate (dare I say, even begin to love) my body more than I ever have. My high arches allow for quick and light footfalls when I run. There’s very little I can do about my teeth and gums, but my new dentist is dreamy in a (married) Michael Buble kind of way so I hate going to the dentist a lot less. My five-head looks pretty awesome when my hair is pulled back in a delightfully messy ponytail when I run. My dimpled ass is just a product of me getting a little older, but my legs are carrying me farther than I ever thought I’d go. And while I still don’t like that I can’t fill out a sundress, I can honestly say there’s nothing better than not having to worry about my chest or back aching from that weight while I run.

Yoga is teaching me things I didn’t think I could learn. Things like restoration and inner peace. I still have a long way to go on both of those fronts. I’m still a really frenetic, Type A monster most of the time. But for an hour a day, I can relax into myself and my breath and just…be. I think I could easily spend five or six hours flowing through gentle poses and it would probably be the most beneficial thing I’d ever do for myself.

And what makes this whole yoga thing even more relaxing to me is the knowledge that I can take it with me anywhere I go. Granted, I have a lot of learning to do before I can do this on my own. I’m a creature that thrives in structured environments where I’m told what to do…so the idea of going it alone in yoga is a bit overwhelming, but I’m hopeful I can get there. I have dreams of practicing on a front porch somewhere, overlooking the ocean. Or taking my mat camping with me and being a warrior and star gazer in the hills.

No matter where my life takes me, I’m convinced that yoga will go with me.

I’m getting ready to move in the next several months. To another state. With more than just a duffel bag and a stereo. Sure, I’ve lived in another country (Canada) and another state (Minnesota), but when one moves away from home for college, it’s not quite the same as moving away from home for…life. I’m about to uproot myself and my dogs and head east for a brand new adventure. New friends. New restaurants. New running trails. New church. New lots of things. I’m leaving my family for the first time in my entire life, but the good news is that where I’m heading, I have lots of other family close by…my brother,  about a billion cousins (it seems), and a few aunts and uncles. To be sure, I’m thrilled about the possibility of seeing them far more often than I have in the last 33 years (holy hell…am I really almost 33?!).

But what I’m discovering in all the emotional ups and downs that comes with moving, is that I’m kind of terrible at keeping friends. I make friends pretty easily. After all, I was always the kid the teacher put the new kids next to in school. Always. It’s something my parents sort of held as a badge of honor when it came to me…I was the friendly one. But that seems to be about where it ends. I can make someone feel comfortable and at home, and then I just sort of trail off.

So when I think about moving away, I worry about losing most of the friends I’ve made during my lifetime in Colorado. I made plenty of friends when I lived in both Canada and Minnesota, but the reality is that I only really keep up with one of them. ONE. Granted, she’s my best good buddy, but still…I made lots of friends while I was there. Or so I thought. I’m sure, or at least I’m hoping, I’m not the only one that experiences this feeling. I’m hoping I’m normal.

But it worries me. I’ve made some really incredible friends here and I wonder…when I move away, will all of that just dissipate? Will it all just go away? Maybe that’s part of why I tend to be guarded when it comes to friends. I just panic that at some point, one of us is going to move away and we’ll forget about each other and what’s the point of really investing? It’s a terrible way to go about life. Just awful. I have my very best Denver friend and I panic terribly about losing her. I think about going through our big life changes and how we won’t be together for them.

I hate talking on the phone. Absolutely hate it. That’s probably a huge part of why I struggle with maintaining friendships. I just don’t like being on the phone. I can’t really even bring myself to call my grandparents because I hate the phone so much. Thank goodness for Skype and FaceTime! I’m not sure why, but that seems so much less…awful. Frankly, I have an iPhone for email, texting, Facebook, and shopping. I hate using it for a phone. If I never used the phone app again, I probably wouldn’t miss it. I dread listening to my voicemail. Seriously. It’s like a phobia. Nothing about being on the phone excites me.

I’ve been going through all this miscellaneous relational madness for quite some time now. I often question who my friends are and if I’m even a friend to them. Compounding the issue, I often deal with feeling like I’m forgotten, not noticed, or simply ignored. It’s probably all in my head. I’m sure it is. But it doesn’t make it any less real, the way I feel.

It makes me wonder, because of this, if the life I’m about to embark on is what I was always meant to do? I’m not entirely sure. But the reality is, I’m sure I’ll be moving more and more as the years go by. Friends will come and go. I will come and go. And was my entire life leading up to this just preparation? It’s strange because I’ve always been the one to stay put while everyone else went away. And for the first time in my life, I’m the one that’s leaving everyone else behind.

It’s all very new. And scary. And incredibly exciting.

So I’m reading this book right now, Captivating. I honestly never thought I’d pick up a book like this. I’m not usually one for the churchy, Jesus-y books. They tend to be more than a little cliche, overbearing, and, well, judgmental. At least, that’s my experience with this type of book. But it came on recommendation from someone whose reading taste I trust, so I decided to go for it. I rented it. And now…I want to own it. In paperback. So I can mark the crap out of it. It’s been a pretty empowering read for me.

But a conversation I had last night is what’s really sparking this post. And since we’re less than twenty-four hours from Valentines Day (a day I have come to love and appreciate), this one is about romance.

There are some of us girls that were (and are) very lucky. We grew up with the World’s Best Dad. He’s probably got shirts and mugs and ties and posters and cards from years and years of his daughters thinking that. And it’s not just that we *think* he’s the best. He truly *is* the best. More than a few of us who have this dad probably, between the ages of three and five, asked our dad’s to marry us. He’s the coolest, strongest, smartest, most amazing dad ever, right?! Dad is the first place we really learn what romance is. Pure, uncomplicated, unconditional romance. Dad gave us flowers and took us out on “dates” and twirled us around when we wore our pretty party dresses. Dad told us we were the prettiest, smartest, most special girl in the world. Not because he had to. Not because he wanted something in return. He did it all just because. Because he could and he wanted to. That’s why so many of us girls that have great dads tend to marry men just like him. I see the way my dad is with my mom and that’s a lot of what I want. She’s a powerful woman. A force to be reckoned with, to be sure. And my dad loves every bit of her and just sort of lets the hurricane that is my mother do what she’s going to do…and he’s been known to be disaster relief from time to time. But he loves that woman. And he can fix stuff and make stuff pretty and he’s crazy smart. He’s funny and talented and generous. He’s passionate about his work, his life, his family, his faith. He’s a leader in every facet of his existence.

I remember learning from my dad the way a boy should treat me. He should open doors and bring me flowers and take me to dinner and show. And he should do it all expecting nothing, but hoping for my thanks and adoration in return.

And isn’t that what true love is? Isn’t the act of loving someone supposed to be pure and simple? There should be no conditions. There is something strong and beautiful and unbreakable when love comes to us in its cleanest form. It seems, then, that if we expect nothing in return for love, we’re basically guaranteed to get everything.

Today is Halloween which means in two days, many people I know will be celebrating Day of the Dead. I’m always fascinated by this tradition. Two of my oldest friends (and many of their family members) gather at their grandparents gravesite and have a big picnic and celebrate the magical lives of those they’ve lost. It’s a wonderful tradition, if you ask me.

I had the chance, over the summer, to do something similar. I visited my grandma for the first time since we buried her about seven years ago. It was sad, to be sure. It was the first time my sister had seen Grandma’s headstone so she was a bit teary for a little while. But after a bit, the tears subsided and my sister and I, along with one of our friends, spent nearly an hour running around the cemetery, chasing fireflies…it was the most appropriate way I could think of to honor my grandma’s life. She’s the first one that ever showed me how to catch a firefly (ah, the wonders of the midwest in the summer) and use it as a nightlight. She loved all the pretty bugs…fireflies, butterflies, ladybugs. I think Grandma was all kinds of smiles that evening, watching us run around like that.

Not long after my grandma passed away, one of my grandpas left. It was pretty gut wrenching to lose another grandparent so quickly. But there are two things I gained from those losses:
1. I was 26 years old before my first grandparent ever died. That’s a really long time to have all of them around. Like, a REALLY long time. I am a lucky girl.
2. Spending the weekend of the funeral with my family was the first time I really remember connecting with Crazy Cousin Jackie on a deep and meaningful level. Makes me sad we didn’t grow up living near each other, but there’s nothing in the world I’d trade for the friend I’ve made in my cousin since then. She’s pretty badass. You should all be so lucky to have a cousin like her.

I’ve experienced some pretty significant loss in the last few years, but this Halloween, rather than wallow in the sadness of the people I’ve lost, I think I’m going to choose to remember everything about those people that made me smile….the butterflies, seashells (an absurd amount, really), gravy, swing music, books and bookmarks, shopping, fresh bread, swimming, newspaper clippings, nicknames, eccentric hats, after-dinner tea…there’s a great deal of happiness to be had!

So this year, I challenge all of us, while we’re enjoying the candy and scary movies and costumes, to think of the people we’ve lost and try to remember the happiness they brought to our lives while they were a part of them.

Over the last year, I’ve had some pretty emotional days. Big highs, bigger lows. It’s been a pretty intense 12+ months. Sometime in early -2012, I decided to put some of the angst to good use and start running. Like, really running. I’ve tried my hand (or foot, as it were) at this a couple of time and every time, I just give up. It starts to feel like too much or my knees/shins start to feel like they’re just going to fall off or a million other excuses. I don’t know what triggered me to start running again this time, but I knew I wasn’t going to give up. I was just going to power through. So I downloaded some apps and started very VERY slowly. We’re talking 20mins at a time, with intervals of 60sec of running and 90sec of walking. I felt like a tool doing it every single time. I have tons of friends that are distance runners (some even ultra distance), but I think what my goal really was this time was to NOT compare myself to anyone and to not have a goal other than to finish the training. I wasn’t going to sign up for anything or put some kind of time frame on my training. I was just going to go until I was done.

Then I remember going to the gym at work one day and both the treadmills were taken. And I was pissed. I was annoyed that other people were doing was I wanted to do. I was irritated that I wasn’t going to get to run that day…and I was shocked that I actually *wanted* to run, I didn’t just *need* to run.

There was one day back in April that I came home from church and the weather was gorgeous. So I laced up and headed out and 3.5miles later (at dastardly pace of about 9:45) I felt like a freaking champ. By that time, I’d found the running pants, shirt, bra, socks, and shoes that I loved so running got that much more fun every single time.

By July, I was fully in love and broke my first promise. I signed up for a race. A half marathon trail run. I don’t know what possessed me to do it. Maybe it was the promise of a rad tech shirt. Maybe it was the measly $60 entrance fee. I don’t know. But I signed up and talked my Colorado BFF into doing it with me. The training kicked into high gear at that point. I was running every day at lunch and every Saturday, I’d map out a distance run and, well, do it. I never realized how many horrible hills my city had until I had to run up them. Holy crap.

I learned a lot about myself on those weekend runs. I learned that I had more in me than I ever thought I would. I learned that heavy beats are almost the worst thing to run to and that I love actually paying attention to lyrics when I run. I learned that slower is sometimes better and that I can push myself to run further and harder than I usually think I can, but that stopping to walk or stretch doesn’t make me any less of a runner. I learned that I hate running through neighborhoods. Concrete is what trails in hell will be made of, followed by pavement. I learned really fast that cotton is about the worst thing ever to run in and that even if my run starts out cold and I wish I’d have worn long sleeves or a jacket, it only takes about half a mile to heat up and know that my clothing choices were correct to begin with. Sunscreen is a necessity, but man does it hurt when it sweats into my eyes! And yes, running with my glasses on is far easier for me than running with my crappy contacts (which I should replace soon anyway). I learned that I love the feeling of my lungs burning for several hours after a run and that a good calf stretch is nothing short of amazing. I love feeling like I just conquered the world and that eating a pizza (a personal favorite) is both warranted and not worth it. I learned to celebrate the small things: my first 6 mile run, my first trail run, my first hydration belt. But probably the best thing I learned was that I am, in fact, a runner.

So I ran 13.1 miles yesterday. Well, that’s a bit of a stretch. I ran 8 miles until my knee gave out on me and I had to move between limp-running and walking for the last 5 miles. It was disappointing, at best. I was told not to have a goal time, but I secretly did…and I didn’t even come close to making it, despite my best efforts. But you know what? My best friend was with me and she made sure to slow me down, stretch me out, and keep me going. She taught me how to focus away from my pain and run through it as much as I could. The last quarter mile was excruciating, but damn it, we ran. And we got our medal, some pancakes, and a well-deserved beer.

I cried the entire drive home…partly from the pain in my knee and partly from sheer exhaustion and partly because I honestly still can’t believe I did a half marathon. Laura reminded me, as we crossed the finish line: “You are now part of only 5% of people IN THE WORLD that will ever do this!” If that’s not encouraging, I don’t know what is. I may have had a dismal pace, but it was an elite dismal pace….and it can only get better from here!

So here I am. A reformed cold-weather-hating-run-avoiding indoors girl. I’m ready to take on the next challenge…just as soon as my knee lets me.

It’s been a long time since I’ve really written anything from my heart. I love writing, but with the chaos that has been my life for nearly a year, I’ve found myself only able to write with the help of “prompts” delivered to my inbox every day. It’s like I have to force myself NOT to think about the last year of my life in an effort to write anything at all.

My heart is just incredibly heavy most days. I put on a good front…at least, I think I do. I’ve always been pretty good at “faking it till I make it,” but the reality is that I very often do not even come close to “making it.” I’ve been on the brink of tears every day for at least two weeks, for any number of reasons. Fall is coming and there’s one more reason this year for me to be in absolute hate with the season. I’m dreading that day coming. I don’t even know how I’m going to manage through it. There’s the possibility of calling in sick, but I’m not sure laying in bed all day is the best or most productive way to get through it. It still might happen. I don’t even want to think about it, but I know it’s going to be the only thing that comes into my head all day long. It’s going to be even worse this year because of the actual day of the week it falls on.

I wish I could just physically throw up all of the emotional crud inside of me.

I’m reading a book right now on grief recovery and so much of what the authors say seems so true. I feel conditioned to need to “get over it” and “move on,” but I’m not sure it’s possible to do either of those things. Ever. This will stay with me forever. It’s a part of who I am. It’s my experience, my life, my past, and will affect my future. But even if I never “get over it,” I’d like to know that it’s going to hurt less, be less mind-numbing at some point. I’m a schedule-driven person so I’d like to be able to put that on my calendar. To just write down “Today it will no longer hurt.”

Some days, I just feel like Carrie Bradshaw in Mexico. I want to sleep and cry and be ugly. I want someone else to deal with my shit. I want to not feel abandoned or alone. I want my best friend to lay in bed and watch movies with me while I cry at the drop of a hat.

I’m a champion at forcing my feelings away. Even when I’m deliriously happy, I tend to remain pretty composed. I’m tired of doing that. I know it’s in my best interest to feel fully everything that happens to me, happy or sad, good or bad, whatever happens, I should really experience it. I haven’t let myself do that in a long time. Probably not since my grandmother died some six or more years ago. I lost my cool in the privacy of my own bedroom, but around other people, I kept it together. After all, it was my mom’s mom that died…she needed all the support she could get. She didn’t need to have to worry about herself AND me. So I pushed it away. I’m sure I could tell you the last time I was so insanely happy, I could hardly contain it…but I did. I kept it under control.

And maybe I’m sick and tired of keeping it under control.

Maybe I want to scream and jump and be nuts when I’m happy and excited. Maybe I want to dive head first into the ugly cry and NOT be in the shower where no one can hear and the tears get washed away immediately. Maybe it’s perfectly acceptable to be unweildy ball of emotion from time to time.

I want October to fly by. I want November to get here quickly and linger for a while. I want December to bring me the joy and peace that it so often does (not to mention the happy calories!). I just want to feel okay again.

The idea of living a simple life is incredibly appealing to me (hmm…I initially typed “appalling” rather than “appealing”…my subconscious is getting the best of me today). My brother lives this way. Basically everything he owns, aside from his car and record credenza, fits in a hockey bag. It’s pretty remarkable. There’s a reason he can up and move to another city or country just about any time he wants to.
 

I have an astounding collection of “stuff” that I’m trying to weed my way through. I just don’t need most of it. My collection of Christmas crap alone is unimaginable. I’m looking forward to digging all the Christmas stuff out this year for one over-arching reason: whatever I don’t put up or out is going straight to the Goodwill. I have high hopes that I’ll be able to lighten my load significantly.
 

I still believe that “stuff” regenerates every time I take a load of things to the Goodwill. About once a month, I’ll take a trunk full of things to donate and when I come back home, it seems my house and garage haven’t gotten any less cluttered. It’s a very strange phenomenon. There’s always something else to straighten or shred or throw away or give away or clean or sell. It’s a never-ending process.
 

I live in a very dichotomous world when it comes to this. I love having “stuff” and “things,” but every time I think about moving, I wish I had about a third of the things I have. I hate packing and moving. It would be so much easier if I could just throw all my stuff in a hockey bag, jump in the car, and peace out. Alas…it would take a team of movers (and friends) to get my crap packed up. Sigh.
 

So yes, living the simple life sounds like a pretty good idea to me. Now to clean out the sheds…