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…

I was recently asked, “What’s the most difficult decision you’ve ever had to make?” I think it’s safe to say I know the answer to that question, but am not willing to elaborate on it. Maybe not ever.
 

So instead, I’ll talk about A difficult decision, rather than THE difficult decision. I promise, it pales in comparison.
 

I made a choice when I was a senior in high school that might be the only thing I’ve ever regretted. I try not to live a life of regrets. There’s nothing I can do to change the past, so there’s little point in dwelling on it. But this one tends to haunt me from time to time. And it’s really not even that big of a deal.
 

I chose to sing in a band rather than be a cheerleader my senior year. I desperately wish I wouldn’t have made that choice. Yes, I loved singing with that band and I learned a lot, musically and personally, by being with those people, but cheerleading? That was, by definition, who I was. I fought long and hard to get to that point and I was told by my coach that there’d be no voting, no nothing…her decision to have me as captain was final and certain.
 

Having to tell her that I wouldn’t be part of the squad was one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had. I wrote a formal letter and sat down to talk with her. Even at 17 years old, I knew it was going to be difficult and I tried to go about it the best way I knew how. It was incredibly painful.
 

Watching some of my closest friends cheer at every football and basketball game sometimes became too much and I’d leave games early (sometimes in tears). I missed out on a lot that year. A LOT. I tried to make it up to myself by coaching a junior high squad for two years after high school and that, in and of itself, was incredibly rewarding. I still get to see and talk to some of those girls and it’s fun to hear their stories and versions of stories from when we worked together. But even working with them made it hard not to be a part of “my” squad.
 

Yes, it’s probably a very silly thing to have a regret over, but I do. I don’t think about it often, but when I see my box of high school memorabilia (which contains a pair of contraband poms), I get a bit wistful. Not the way I’m wistful when I see another box in my storage shed, but wistful, nonetheless.

For the last several months, I’ve had to learn what it means to be alone. I’ve spent a significant amount of time alone recently. Sometimes that’s good, sometimes it’s bad. For a long time, I’ve thought that “being alone” was kind of a bad thing, like something was wrong if I was alone (or if anyone was, for that matter), but what I’m coming to realize is that being alone is kind of refreshing. Almost necessary.

I’m not prone to spending time alone. I like being around people. I like noise. I like distractions. So in the last few months, this being alone thing has taken it’s toll on me. I don’t have people calling me up very frequently to hang out with me or just to talk. So I find myself spending a lot of time working out and watching TV…and more recently, I’ve been going to the local brewery and reading for hours on end. I was never one to really go out by myself…seeing movies alone or going to dinner by myself or taking me out for a drink just seemed awkward. Now I relish in it. About a month ago, I took myself to see a movie because a) I could and b) I wanted to see if I could really do it. Turns out, it was actually a lot of fun! I spend a ton of time with my dogs…we wrestle and go for walks to the park and play outside. They are guaranteed happiness.

So while I’ve found ways to enjoy being alone, I also miss NOT being alone. It’s nice to have someone around to talk to or hang out with or have adventures with. It’s nice to having someone to go to the movies with and make dinner reservations for.

I think there’s an interesting cyclical balance that’s struck between solitude and companionship. Being alone teaches me that I need to be around people, while being around people shows me that alone-time is good and sometimes necessary.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m pretty lucky when it comes to injuries. I’ve never broken a bone (that I know of…I might have broken a toe before, but it didn’t hurt enough to go have it checked out) despite cheerleading and skiing basically my entire life. But there are two injuries I have had that make me cringe just to think about. Because they HURT.

The first was when I was in grade 8 and got into a pretty nasty car accident at church. My friend was pulling her parents van around to the front door, something the regularly let her do. It was a small church with an even smaller parking lot, so this wasn’t a big deal. Until that day. She slammed on the gas thinking it was the brake and rammed us head on into a light pole. I bashed my head into the dash board and my glasses shattered. I ended up in the ER with probably a reasonably-sized concussion. I don’t think I’ve had a headache that bad ever since and that includes the time I had to get a CT because my doc thought I might have a tumor and/or  aneurysm (I didn’t). The worst of it all was that the accident happened the day before end-of-year finals at school and I forgot almost everything I’d studied in the previous weeks. It was horrible. I barely passed most of my finals that year despite being granted a significant amount of mercy from my teachers.

Then when I was probably in grade 10 or something, I was horsing around on our trampoline with my brother and damn near snapped my femur. Now, I realize it takes quite a bit to do that, but I came very close that summer. He and I used to play this game where one of us would sit in the center of the trampoline while the other would run around and the sitter would try to grab the runner’s ankles and trip them. It was actually quite a lot of fun! Except for this one day when we failed to put the mats around the edges. I dodged my brother and in the process, my right leg fell through a set of bars and springs and I tumbled over the edge, leg still stuck in the bars. By the time I was able to right myself (with a little help from my brother), I had already developed a black, green, and purple bruise the size of a volleyball on my thigh. My mom, not knowing what had just happened and reacting solely to my banshee screams, told me to “walk it off.” Then she saw that I couldn’t exactly walk. That one…well that hurt for a while. Which made cheerleading practice that summer quite challenging.

I’m telling you, both of those injuries hurt way worse than either of the times I stepped on rusty nails.