For God's sake...

Look at this.

She found her chi.  And she's only six.

Full lotus.  And she's happy about it.  I'm 41 and I am still trying.  With my six-year-old's help I pulled, torqued, twisted, and turned my lower half until I too became a pretzel.  I asked Jane to take my picture in case it's the only time I ever did it.  Here's what she got...

For God's sake.  My hair doesn't even look good.  I was so irritated I made her stay in Full Lotus until...

She reached victory.  Or pain.  (Just kidding.  I didn't make her do it at all.)  I was, however, so excited you'd have thought she got very early admission to Harvard.   It occurred to me though that victory and pain are symbiotic.  One rarely exists without the other.  And through it all we must be playful.  Like a 6-year-old.  She inspires me, impresses me and keeps me pressing forward.  (For the record, all 3 of my children do.)

We all have that thing that keeps us taking another step.  If we are lucky we are aware of it all the time.  Like running a marathon.  Why in the hell do we run 26.2 miles through pain and injuries for the sweet nanosecond of crossing the finish line?  Why did contort my body for the millisecond I reached Full Lotus?    

Not to SAY, I did.  But to KNOW I did.  I can and will do it again, God willing.  Run another race.  Connect with my chi.  Twist.  Again and again.  Because I CAN.  Victory awaits.  But not without a little pain.

What makes you come back to your race?   

Hall and Oates

January 12, 1997

1:51 a.m.

"She's gone", said the doctor as her family stood around her.  

Kathleen Nott Handy, 58

Me, 28 in the nightmare of the my first breath without my mother.  The average person takes 28,880 breaths in a day and in every one for 13 years I have missed her.  My story is not better or worse than anyone else's but this I know for certain.  I was incomparably lucky.  My little soul, for some cosmic reason - some unknown twist of fate - or some wonderful act from another life, got placed with Her.  Indescribable.  Undeniable.  Kindness.  Love without limits.

And I am grateful.  

But whenever I hear Hall and Oates I think of one of the 2 worst sentences I will ever hear...

She's Gone Oh I, Oh I'd

better learn how to face it
She's Gone Oh I, Oh I'd
pay the devil to replace her
She's Gone - what went wrong

And yes, I would've paid the devil to replace her - done anything to get her back.  One more breath.  One more moment.  One more hug.  One more conversation.  One more laugh.  One more look.  One more anything.  But it was not to be.  So...

I am filled in every breath with hope and love and motivation and inspiration.  In Yoga, we know that God and bliss can be found in the breath.  You may also find my mother.

  

She's not gone.  She's in every breath I take, every move I make.  

I like Sting better anyway.  And he likes Yoga.

  

 

The view from my rear...

Here's what I see...

From my bottom in dandasana or 'Staff Pose' during Yoga. It isn't pretty . Those aren't sausages, they are my toes and that's a whole other post - a congenital condition my brother shares. Anyway, I had an epiphany about my injured foot during a recent crowded Yoga class. I was practically pasted against the front mirror and this became my view.

Ew. I was wishing for a flask but instead I studied my gently throbbing right foot. The sonofagun that's been giving me a fit for a while. Besides being in DESPERATE NEED OF A PEDICURE, I could see some differences in the soles of my feet. AND THAT GAVE ME HOPE.

My good foot had biceps. Definition. Solid shape. And a zillion callouses (again, the flask) for taking a beating for my weak one. Maybe if I learn to strengthen assistor muscles and send my bad foot to the gym or the fat farm or whatever I might get rid of the pain.

So as usual, I contemplate life. We accommodate for our weak spots often at the expense of the strong ones. So we should stare at our injuries, discomforts, challenges in the face and find just the right modality to treat it. Find symmetry and balance. But don't paste yourself against a mirror during Yoga unless the burning incense is wafting something strong. Otherwise you'll end up likening your foot callouses to life.

BTW, I do believe there's deep meaning all around us...

Donations for a pedicure are gladly being received at my paypal account. Consider it charity. Those puppies are screaming for one. Thank God Winter in Virginia calls for socks.

This sucks

Meet my new baby.

I had her on Sunday, December 27 at about 11:45. I had run 4 miles that morning and was ready to take my children to Mass. (Jumpstart New Year's resolutions.) I realized how late we'd be and decided to play hooky from God and spend some money. Off we went to Best Buy and 10 minutes later I had a baby I'd been contemplating for sometime. I put her in the car - unstrapped, went for an Italian lunch, ran a gazillion errands then went to Yoga. I'm amazing that way. Right after giving birth. I did a headstand and a backbend and then came home to let her suckle. And does she ever. I love my new baby. I she's got the greatest latch and really fills herself up quick. This new addition makes me very happy and I'm saving money. I smashed every one of my plates, recycled the unused paper ones and have been eating directly off the hardwoods every since. Saving on dish soap and cabinet space. And I just found out I'm pregnant with a new computer. I'll let you know what he looks like when he arrives. I think I'll name him Mac.

Updates:

No tattoo as of yet. Loving the debate.

Running is very difficult right now. Foot/ankle problems persist. Went to see my healer (aka PT) today. I'm all taped up again and found out my hips are very weak. Turns out my running gait looks more like Boyz in 'da hood because my hips drop with every step. No stability in my pelvis. I have new exercises to do. So if you catch me laying against a wall opening and closing my legs like scissors I haven't taken a job as a stripper, I'm healing my foot.

My son got a cell phone for Christmas. Craziness. He's texting me to be sure I got his text.

Here are older babies...

This is Christmas morning. They are waiting to see what Santa brought so the hand brace is not from texting, he didn't have the phone yet. It's from a snowball fight. Now THAT's my baby and that sucks - the hand thing. As does my foot thing. But I have faith it will all get better.

I'll be running like the wind before you know it instead of like Tupac Shakur. California Love. I love that song. What's your favorite song?

Happy New Year.

It's better than getting a tatt

I love art.
I have been noodling with the idea of getting some cool, small, unobtrusive tattoo. My sister threatened to remove it herself if I ever did, so I decided to get my hair cut instead.

My sister means no offense to anyone with a tatt. Go cousin Marie - hotter than hot new mother with a great head on her shoulders! Who knew?! Seen only if shown. Love it. She's got hetero women rethinking their status and EVERYONE JUST LOVES HER. She's edgy and cool. And a secret body graphic suits her. Maybe I'm just not cool enough.

It's all my running friend, Judith's fault. She's a 40-something 8-time (and counting ) marathoner. She's also a Master's Degree holding teacher with long blond hair and Ivory-girl skin. Her small, peace sign tatt just by her left shoulder peaked out and winked at me during a long summer run.

I know that...

• For intents and purposes - a tattoo is permanent. Like having a child. You better be darn sure and not lube up with tequila before the act.


• Regret closely chases the ink needle and often catches up. Once again, you better be darn sure.


• The wrong, size, the wrong image and the wrong location can make you celibate for life and keep you from your dream job.


• Aging tatts can't be pretty. Sort of like my neck right now.


• This example may unleash edginess in your offspring.

I guess a haircut for now is enough. Next I'll wax my brows and then my betty. I'll put the tatt off a bit.

Here it is. The haircut, not my betty.

Ohhhhhhh yessss.....!

I'm finally feelin' it!

I ran about 5 miles today and LIKED it. I've been warned about PRLMS. (Post-Race-Low-Motivation-Syndrome) but this hit me hard. I have been cold and unapproachable and the thought of IT made me sick. And it's not because I'm 41 and have PMS.

And so I'm back to running, back to caring and back in the saddle of my life. God, does it feel good. It's been one month since I did it with ANY gusto. Before that, nothing. Nada. Haven't wanted to. Never dreamed it would be fun again and didn't give a lick. But Beth over at ShutUpandRun keeps me on track as does one of her favs, http://elizabethfedofsky.blogspot.com/2009/12/20-things-you-can-do.html. Check it out. You'll be writing down goals, kicking ass and taking names. My plan for 2010. Join me?!

Totally off subject...

The bitch at my OB/GYN office, asked me if I still menstruated. Last week I went in for a preventative pap smear and the 20-something intake clinician asked me if I still had my period. I wanted to ask her if I looked pregnant because if not, the answer is of course you moron from hell. To calm down, I went home and did this...

Totally staged. Note lipstick and photo of happy me running over right shoulder. Beth, note sweatshirt!

Malcolm in the middle

I don't name my body parts but...

I couldn't resist this headline (named for a TV show my children watch) after I read the greatest column in our local paper by a woman who didn't realize someone had moved into her mid-section until she went to buy new pants. She had turned 50 recently and was flummoxed by the new real estate at her waist.

Me, I'm a little ways from 50 but I know why middle's giggling.

It's this...

Thanksgiving Day. Carbohydrates galore. Butter to beat the band. Eight different dessert selections. Boy was it good!

Running Reduction. Since the marathon two and half weeks ago I have run a TOTAL of 14 miles. Whoohoo.

So my six-year-old says to me, Why can't you just burn that fat off?

I'm trying, my little princess. I biked 12 miles and ran 2 today.

I'm having a hard time being motivated to run these days. I'm told it's normal after a race.
So far my pants still fit but if they didn't at least I know the score. I am the landlord of my body and I know the party I've been having. Maybe it's a good thing. Balance. Respect. Fun. Maybe running will be fun again soon. Gotta go, Malcolm in the Middle is on.