Up and back

Once upon a time, many moons ago, I taught a yoga workshop at Kripalu about stability. In it, I took people through examples of the five basic groups of postures (standing, seated, supine, prone and inverted), and helped them find their strength and anchor at each stop.

The first point for anchoring was the place where the body connected to the ground, and so it changed depending on the posture set. For instance, in a standing posture, it would be your feet. Inverted, your hands or head. Prone, your pelvis. You get the point.

But the second point of stability never changed, it was always the engagement of the core. Physically speaking, you could qualify ‘core’ as ‘abs’ – but it’s really more involved than that. It requires a deep lifting up of the perineum*—as if you were trying to lift your pelvic floor towards your navel—at the same time that you are pulling your navel back to your spine.

After the postures, when they were quite comfortable with this feeling** of engaging their core, I’d have them stand up and face a partner, palms touching about shoulder high. I’d tell Partner A to relax these new found core muscles completely. Then, I’d tell Partner B to push them over–which they did instantly.

Then, I’d have them come back to face each other once more, and I’d instruct Partner A to engage the core this time. When I gave Partner B the ‘go’ signal, Partner A simply couldn’t be moved. S/he was like a rock…or tree…or mountain (something that was seriously grounded and immovable).

Their reaction involved a lot of head smacking and disbelief. “That’s it?” they’d ask all accusatorily-like. “That’s all I needed to_____???” Be strong, stand my ground, get some balls, believe in myself, have a life, not be a pushover, feel secure, etc., etc. and on and on—just fill in the blank.

“Just about,” I’d say. And to this day, I use that first point of connection to the ground and my core muscles when I run, bike, blade, swim, write, talk to people, network, work in general, need to stand up taller, love, do hard things, do happy things, etc., etc. and on and on—just fill in the blank.

Try it. On your next business call or when you walk around the grocery store or when you call customer service to get your damn money back. Connect some part of the body strongly to the ground, pull your perineum up and your belly button back towards your spine. Your chest will lift and your shoulders will drop down automatically. The crown of your head will reach up and away leaving your neck long and open. See how your voice sounds, notice how you feel, evaluate the outcome of your task.

But there is a catch. Because there’s always a catch.

The connection to the ground is always available and your core is always there, in your body and , therefore, wherever you go. BUT, you have to remember to use them. That part is up to you. Just like Dorothy…who had the power to go (up and) back—all along.

Image credit: Stephen Mitchell

*if you don’t know, your perineum is the place at the absolute bottom of your torso, your ‘south pole’ if you will. Sometimes, in the locker room, it’s called the t’aint (cause it’aint your good bits and it’aint your bum – but somewhere right in between). And that concludes the anatomy portion of this post for today.

**fyi, when you practice this engagement a lot (and especially at the beginning), it can cause a lot of sexual energy to bubble up because it involves your pelvis and everything your pelvis contains. I’m just sayin’ – and I’m not responsible. So there.

Some numbers along the way

8:07 time last night when I decided maybe I’d do a long run in the morning.

4:23 when I woke up.

5:05 when I started running.

700 milliliters of coconut water steadily poured down my gullet.

1 lovely, elderly couple that I flagged down and asked to ‘ferry’ said coconut water down to the end of that first long, long road so I didn’t have to lug it with me. Because, ironically, I was too lazy to plant the water along the course and can now proclaim that carrying it is a bad, bad idea—does ugly things to the stride.

9 wild (and likely crazy) turkeys.

2 big, beautiful, brown bulls.

4 ducks—one mama + 3 duck-a-lings (pronunciation per Jack and Sophie)

6 young, small, male, vibrant red cardinals (unless it was the same bird that followed me the whole way? But I doubt it…).

3 stunning views of the Atlantic Ocean via the southern coast of Martha’s Vineyard under the early morning sun.

6 hot biking dudes (or at least they looked hot in their gear) that said hello.

1 hot biking chick who looked and sounded (we exchanged ‘hellos’ as well) a helluva lot like Debra Messing.

3 writing/content ideas for later.

12 cars that piloted voluptuously around me.

1 car and asshat that did not.

4,793,281 drops of sweat.

300 ish steps to the beach, post-run.

5 minutes spent soaking my legs in the cold ocean.

5 minutes spent scanning said ocean for Great Whites (they are currently infesting our waters, seriously, look it up on Google).

22 teeth you would see right now if you were here with me…because I can’t seem to close my mouth for all the smiling.

13.1 miles run.

1/2 Marathon checked off the list.

5 roads.

2 legs.

1 me.

If you run a marathon and no one sees you do it, did you still run a marathon?

I’ve been told that I’m exceedingly competitive. And it’s true. I love making bets. And I love winning them. (and conveniently forgetting about the ones I lose.) I’ve been known to challenge grown men who weigh at least 100 lbs. more than me to arm wrestling matches. Apparently, I love the chase and the fight. No matter the odds.

So, why, in the last couple of weeks, when I’ve been asked about doing a triathlon or running a road race, have I immediately and definitively replied, No way. Not interested. ???

If you write or art or play music or do anything creative, then you know that the creative process does not come in a bottle. It does not pay attention to time. It does not spurt on demand. And this characteristic is both maddening and magical. You never know when the well will be dry. You never know when something wonderful will surge up and out of you.

So we just keep showing up.

As some of you know, I don’t believe in writer’s block. I believe in time. I believe that if you write something else, start in the middle, go for a run, talk to people, move your body and go about your business (without staring at the keyboard or the clock), the words will show up. A watched pot…and all that.

Have I written on demand? Yes, of course, it’s part of my job description. Is it, sometimes, exhilarating? Yes. Is it also pressure-filled and does it make my skin itch? Yes. So, I try not to let it happen.

Imagine a marathon. A real one, with a finish line and thousands of people. These people train for ONE day. They are, in effect, running on demand. They train for four plus months or years for ONE day. What if they wake up that day with a headache? the flu? elephantitis of the big toe? or they just start running and feel like crap? What happens is this: they’re screwed. And the perception is one of failure.

All because of One Day Syndrome

I’m going to run a half-marathon and then I’m going to run a full one. By myself, on my island. No fanfare, no crowds. Just me and my trusty google pedometer charting the perfect course. And some stashed coconut water along the way. And my own awesomeness at the end.

Oh, and no pressure, no ‘on demand’. If I plan it for Saturday the #th and it doesn’t happen, I’ll try again the next week. I’ll find the right day and the right body state. And I’ll do what I set out to do. On my terms. Because lots of things are on someone else’s—but not this. I get this one.

I can hear some of you now, “But part of the challenge is getting through whatever comes at you on that THAT day!” And I will—it’s just going to be on my day. Come on. Of course, I’m not saying that I’ll give up at the first sign of discomfort, you know me better than that. But I don’t really like prescriptions. Look at New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day and Prom. And I think there really is a reason that animals struggle to mate in captivity. Whatever happened to following an urge…all. the. way. up.

This blog—my terms, my space, my domain— is ‘the way’ my fingers write best. And, I think it will also be the way that my legs run best. I just don’t want it to come down to one day, one chance.

I want it to come down to one me.

Image credit: horizontal integration

It’s the cushioning that kills

As I told you the other day, I just devoured and obsessively loved Born to Run by Christopher McDougall.

I loved everything about it. I love that it literally pulled me out my door to run on a Saturday night at 7pm—when I’m a certified, card-carrying, morning runner. I love that I think I’m going to go again tonight. I love that it has made me feel like anything is possible. (When you read what these runners have done (eg. running 100 miles straight across mountains in the dark), you suddenly know that you can make it for a measly ten.)

Most notably, I love that I learned this: cushioning is bad for us. Sounds weird, right? Many instances spring to mind where I would literally beg for a little cushioning—feedback on my writing, the end of a relationship, a pillow when you’re trying to sleep on a plane…I could go on and on.

Killer cushioning…since 1972

Did you know that running shoes, as we know them, were created as recently as 1972. 1972. Remember Chariots of Fire? It looked like those dudes were running in jazz shoes. Go back farther and farther until you get to the people who didn’t even have shoes (or go to remote places today where they still don’t)—they were still running. For sport, for survival, for food and because it feels really, really good. Many of them ran 50, 75, 100′s of miles at a time. Barefoot.

Duh. Of course they did. But in our westernized minds, we think we need fancy cushioned shoes to run. Because that’s what we’ve been told. By these guys:

Phil Knight and Bill Bowerman, Nike’s founders, created the concept of ‘jogging’ and they created a running style that had you reach forward with your leg and hit the ground with your heel first (up to that point, everyone ran by landing on the fat of the midfoot pad with shorter strides). Because there is no natural padding on the heel, you simply couldn’t land on it unless you suddenly had a shoe with a cushioned heel. [Note: read that last sentence again.]

In an astounding marketing move, these two men created a new sport (jogging) that depended on a new way to run (the heel strike), neither of which could exist without their brand new, never before seen, bright and shiny, product.

Excuse my French, but, holy shit.

I read this part of the book five times in a row, my mind churning. How many other ‘cushioned shoes’ have we been sold? And what have they done to our bodies, our minds, our crafts? How else have we cushioned ourselves and therefore deprived ourselves of our true connection to the art and pure love of what it is that we do?

• With the advent of cushioned shoes, running injuries skyrocketed. While they promised to make us go faster.
• With the advent of processed and fast food, obesity and degenerative disease skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives simpler.
• With the advent of marketing schemes, bad writing that is unconnected to heart or soul skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives successful overnight.
• And with the advent of _______ , _______ skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives ______.

Go ahead, fill in the blank. And then kick off those shoes, bring your feet back to your ground…and see what happens.

Image credit: R. Motti

The opposite of mashed potatoes

There is this oddity that happens (my dad would categorize it under the ‘reversal theory’) with growing children. It goes like this: when they are extremely young (as in 4-6 months) they feel heavier when you carry them than they do when they’re a just a bit older (say 6-8 months). Even though they’re bigger and weigh more.

The reason is simple, it’s because these older babes are carrying their own weight. Their muscles are strong enough now to do so, whereas when they were smaller and lighter, they just hung in your arms. Like lumps of mashed potatoes. (minus the butter and sea salt, which is a tragic shame).

Making adjustments

This thought occurred to me when I was running this morning. I was trying to run my eight mile loop in my new cushionless shoes. But I ended up running 10. I couldn’t stop. And besides the shoes, I was trying out a new arm position because my pipes had been flying around by my chest pushing my shoulders up to my ears, causing some bad muscle cramps in my neck.

And the weirdest thing happened. When I lowered my arms, I became lighter and tighter. As if that one shift had pulled my body together in a way that lightened me perceptibly. And, as I said, I couldn’t stop running.

The self carry

I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I realized it was the same as the baby phenomenon. I certainly didn’t lose weight over the course of 10 miles, but I got lighter—because I was holding myself more efficiently and totally together, making me much easier to carry.

A simple shift—of the body, of the mind, on the mapped route. And suddenly, the ability to go farther, faster, stronger, easier. Holding my own self up. Look ma, no hands.

Image credit: dullhunk

What’s right with Jenni.

I waitressed for several years. Through college, through grad school. And I enjoyed it thoroughly. I loved how the time went by so fast, no watch-looking necessary. I loved how it was always new. I loved the free food. I loved the little family the staff created. I loved that I never, ever had to take this uncomplicated work home with me. I chatting away with all of my customers. I loved the flirt of it. (I was voted biggest flirt in high school, you know.)

À la Bull Durham: You seat the people, you feed the people, you get paid by the people. Sometimes they’re easy, sometimes they’re assholes, sometimes they sexually harass you. It’s really just like baseball.

Wearing the hideous uniform of the three restaurants I slung food at, I showed up all bright and shiny and new on my first day—wishing and praying for it to be my 30th.

The road to weakness

You see, I don’t like not knowing. It’s extraordinarily uncomfortable for me. The minute I’m somewhere new, I long for familiarity. I want to know where the coffee lives, how the chef likes you to place special orders, what time you can finally eat or sit down, how to use the archaic cash register.

In my mind, sadly, the ‘not knowing’ equals stupidity which then brings me quickly to weakness. And I don’t like weakness. (Mind you, I don’t feel this way about You not knowing something—this is personal cruelty only.)

But, what can you do? There is literally no way around the not knowing. So…I would:

• Watch, listen and learn with a vengeance.
• Hide my self-dismay.
• Crack jokes about how the door into the kitchen bashed me on the ass at least 12 times.
• Find the things I knew how to do and do those.
• Ask questions to get essential info.
• Just get through it, nose down and eyes high—knowing it won’t last forever. Nothing does.

This week

I just started a new project (as in a whole new, insanely exciting medium). And it hit me, square in that vulgar place in my brain that hates starting something new, that I somehow put myself into a career where I have new moments constantly. CONSTANTLY! CONSTANTLY!

New clients, new projects, new deadlines, new terminologies, new industries, new technologies, new writing styles. New, new, new, new, new, new, new. (BTW, that was said as only Anthony can say things, for all of you SATC (TV, not movie) fans.)

Fascinating. Like someone terrified of blood deciding to go to med school. (And then being shocked to find that there’s talk or sight of blood most days.)

So…what, exactly, is wrong with me? Does it seem odd? Or does it make total sense.

There’s this quote in my new favorite book ever, Born to Run. Background: McDougall is talking about a woman who discovered that literally all she wanted to do was run (naked, mind you, in just her shoes, through the backcountry of Idaho the summer she came to volunteer, mid-college and mid-eating disorder). Here’s the quote:

…Jenni has been hard-core ever since, running long miles even when Idaho is blanketed by snow. Maybe she’s self-medicating against deep-seated problems, but maybe (to paraphrase Bill Clinton) there was never anything wrong with Jenni that couldn’t be fixed by what’s right with Jenni…

I pile on more work than one human should be able to do because I actually can do it. I abhor weakness because I have a deep well of strength. I put myself into discomfort because I’m very good at finding my way out.

Huh. Yeah. Maybe we are all our own antidotes.

Image credit: Steve Snodgrass

Because the search is the search

I just finished one of the best books I’ve ever laid hands, eyes and brain on: Born to Run by Christopher McDougall (Amazon affiliate link). Yes, it’s about running. But it’s also about people and writing your own story and pushing yourself farther than you ever thought possible and the human body and history and culture and the world and…shall I go on?

So, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t think you need to be a runner, or even an athlete, to be impacted by this book. In fact, you could just be a writer or a designer or an artist or a lawyer or an architect or a human. I’m just sayin’.

Why? Because this book is about endurance running—and how it is that human’s are able to do it. How we’re able to run 100 mile races across deserts, unfathomable distances under unfathomable conditions.

And can you honestly tell me that you haven’t covered these distances in your own way, with your own unfathomable conditions? Maybe you had to write a 100 page website in two weeks and your internet kept going down and you had strep throat and then your computer crashed and you lost everything. Maybe you had 20 paintings due in 6 weeks and there was a canvas drought. Maybe you were about to represent the defense in the trial of a lifetime but your key witness suffered from laryngitis and illiteracy. Hell, we could play this game all day.

Born to Run is about the search for the ultimate run. So McDougall breaks running down and tracks it back to the beginning of human and animal-kind. Technique, energy, sustenance, equipment, support, heroes. Just like the best books on any topic—this one just happens to have legs.

McDougall wrote his book to find the answer to one question: How come my foot hurts? Finding the answer took him on the wildest of odysseys.  And, for all of you writers and readers, he is a phenomenal writer. PHENOMENAL. I felt like I was sitting in his living room while he told me his story. Nah, that’s not right—I felt like I was sitting in his lap.

He finds answers…to more than just his original question. But isn’t that just the way?

What’s your question?

• How come I can’t write?
• How come I procrastinate?
• How come no one will hire me?
• How come no one reads my blog?
• How come…
• How come…
• How come…

And how many answers to your frustrated questions have you found so far? You’re ready, but something is holding you back—WHY? And what if you (or I) also wrote an opus that searched back through time to explore the techniques, energy, sustenance, equipment, support, heroes that could teach us what we need know to move thrivingly forward? To run as though our feet were barely touching the earth and our fingers were barely touching our keyboards…

What if?

So in love

The summer after my senior year in high school sticks out in my mind. Prominently.

Not because there was a life changing event. Not because I was leaving high school and home and my friends. And not because I was getting ready to go off to college, the east coast and an unknown life.

It was because I was in love and in a deeply committed and satisfying relationship, the kind where you wake up in the morning and remember what you have and what you’re in—and it floods you with warmth and joy and YES! It was because it was one of those rare, extended periods—as in concentrated time, as opposed to 5 minutes bursts that occur every now and then—that I felt so sure, so committed, so ‘in it’.

It was because the relationship I was in was with me.

Not because someone broke up with me or because I couldn’t find anyone to love or to love me. And therein lies the rub. My high school boyfriend wanted to be with me, but I’d broken up with him when I left St. Louis for the summer. He eventually drove all the way to northern Minnesota to be with me, but I said no…again. There was a also a ceramics counselor who fancied himself in love with me, but I wasn’t having that either.

No brag, just fact. (Thanks for that one,  Joe.) My point is that the summer was so memorable because this ‘wanting to be on my own’ was purely voluntary. Chosen.

And I’ve been thinking about that summer. Remembering what it felt like—to be so happy…with just me. And, 19 years later, I’m seeing something I hadn’t noticed before, about why that time was so profound. The something is this: there’s a marked difference between reaching out. And reaching in.

Reaching out:

• Things are beyond your grasp, beyond your control.
• Essentially, they are other. Not you.
• And I don’t believe there can ever be total fusion of the two separate parts. But it’s what we spend endless effort trying to make happen.
• In a relationship, we’re trying to get others to say what we need them to say, to act like we need them to act, to read our minds.
• In the writing, well, it’s kinda the same. And the room for reader interpretation is pretty big, like the penthouse suite.
• I’ve seen too much now to believe that this complete fusion is possible. Cynical? Maybe, but I’m calling ‘em like I see ‘em. So often lately I’ve thought it would happen—with this group or these two people or maybe those three—but, nope.

Reaching in:

• Things are right there, available, customizable, known and understood even before you know and understand.
• Essentially, they are familiar. You.
• And the thought of fusion is actually redundant. We don’t need to spend time to make it happen, we just need to be. There is no separateness.
• In this relationship, it’s private, not on display. And you only have to answer to you. You get to see you.
• In the writing, well, it’s kinda the same. I mean, it’s ALL in there, inside.
• I’ve seen enough now to know that complete fusion exists. I’ve been lucky enough to feel it.

I’m thinking about rekindling this old flame.

Though there are moments when I think that will be impossible. Those are the moments when I’m standing alone in big, flat, open spaces with nowhere to hide. When there is a blank screen in front of me. When the idea of writing a book is dangled. When I feel like being loud, out loud, aloud and allowed. When I don’t want to be alone. When I want someone to read and love what I’ve written. When I’m looking out.

But, I gotta say, this remembered love affair has been peeking at me lately, from around random corners. It’s most abundantly felt when I’m writing, or in a groove with my work in general. It’s certainly there when I’m running et al. Sometimes it just appears and fills me up and says, “Remember how good this feels? How whole? How peaceful? How utterly painless?”

And I remember how alive I was during the relationship, over the course of that summer. By no means a hermit, hiding, sad or scared—but a good friend, an adventurer, a happy spirit, a big punch of delight, a live-er. Because I had everything I needed.

It’s that remembering that makes me want it back. Makes me want to call it and say, ‘Hey, it’s me…I was thinking we should see each other, even if it’s just for lunch.” Even though I know we’re going to end up in bed together.

And even though I’m still, out of habit, looking out—I’m clearly thinking, Nah, I’d rather stay in.

Image: Tony the Misfit

I’m training for everything

“Are you training for a marathon or something?” Was the question I was asked in response to the 11.2 mile run.

“Nope.” Was the answer.

But it was a lie.

I’m training for everything.

When I get out of bed at 5 a.m.ish to run or rollerblade or bike or swim every morning, I’m:

• Strengthening my body. Feeling good in my skin is vitally important to my productivity, self-esteem, health. I literally write stronger, sit in my chair stronger, think stronger and create stronger when my body feels like this. The muscles, the solidness, the firmness, the lines, the curves, the soft bits—they are all an integral part of my writing. When I don’t feel good in my body, when I feel heavy and frumpy, I feel bad about myself and it contaminates my creativity.

• Fortifying my will. It takes determination to get out of bed. To run when I don’t feel like it. To trust that the nervy feeling in my knee will go away if I just relax. To go farther than I’ve ever gone. To do the same damn run I always do. To take a day off (I think that’s the hardest, actually). To stop if it doesn’t feel right. To practice rich self-care.

• Reinforcing my belief that I am good, full of follow through and fruition. I like to have a lot to do. Boredom destroys me. So I usually have many projects going at once. And while this is a choice and typically feels good—there are those days. Where I’m drowning in my to-do list, terrified that I can’t get it all done. Sometimes it’s just the blank screen with a new project title at the top and that feeling that I won’t be able to pull this one out, that the words won’t come, that I’ll never be able to write ___ pages. And then I remember that I got up early this morning in the snow or humidity or wind and sweat for 8 miles before the sun was even up. And then I start writing…or living, as the case may be.

• Taking comfort in the fact that there are always lessons to be learned. Should we count how many posts I’ve written in the last year about the correlation between my work and my running, my life and my rollerblading and my writing and my _____? Maybe because ‘on the road’ is the diametric opposite to ‘in the chair’—and the juxtaposition is the great revealer.

• Plugging into the source. My mind writes when I move in the methodical ways that these workouts invite. I don’t listen to music. I don’t try to think about things. I just put one foot, or hand, in front of the other and literally make space for my own personal ticker tape feed in my brain. I don’t plan it, it just happens. Problems are solved, clarity surfaces, decisions are made.

• Single-tasking. This is the only time that I’m not multi-tasking. It’s single-pointed focus. It’s meditative. It’s rhythmic breath and step. I can’t help but be present to the sensations in and around me. And it forces me to listen to me—when I shut out all the other noise.

• Dramatically sweeping. I live entire lives on my runs. From elation to defeat to having massive brain bursts to having my heart break to memories that come sweeping through with the force of a rhino to exhaustion to floating. There is always a beginning, a middle and an end. Like any good story.

• Sharpening my brain. How do you melt something frozen? You put it in the heat. I sharpen my brain by taking it as far away from my computer and the work and the think tank environs as possible. I get the most out of my brain by putting it in the place where it is needed the least.

How do you train? And what are you training for?

Image credit: TheOwl84

Flying, Fifteen and Karaoke

Let’s be clear. As a teenager (and before) I misbehaved. If it was bad for you, dangerous, risky or death defying? I did it. And like most every kid, it never occurred to me that I was actually taking risks with my life. I was fearless, brave, bold.

Until the risk came looking for me, wrapped its nastiness around me and almost pulled me under.

One night when I was 15…

I mixed a few too many chemicals and fell off a ledge – or that’s what it felt like. All I remember is the sensation of floating away and then falling. Down a dark, terrifying, endless tunnel. And the sound of my own screams.

Of course, my friends didn’t call an ambulance (or my parents) – they shook me out of it and took me outside. And as we sat on the front steps (smoking ‘restorative’ cigarettes), and I tried to find the ground under my body, I heard a plane flying over head. Because I was in a panicked state, my hearing was simultaneously excruciatingly exact and far, far away – as if being filtered through an echo chamber.

Somehow, the sound of that plane, the mention of any other plane and flying in general glued themselves to the pungent realizations that crept into my core that night, took up residence and refused to leave. That, in this life: I had no control and I would die.

Those are the kinds of revelations you hope to stave off until your 20′s. At least. Right? But there they were. And in my mind they were inextricably linked to everything airplane.

Lockdown

My knee-jerk response to ‘the incident’ was to regain control. In other words, I cleaned my shit up right quick. I literally erased as much risk from my life as possible – my two main targets were drugs & alcohol and flying. Wait – I should also tell you that I developed a beautiful little case of OCD and a delightful eating disorder or two in my attempt to control everything around me. So, I think we can all agree that this ‘controlling everything’ was not the best plan.

It shut down my life.

And I held on to it for quite some time. Somewhere deep down inside, I had made a deal with myself: if you hold everything in – as tightly as possible, if you don’t take any chances, if you stay so afraid to die that you don’t let yourself live – then you’ll be okay.

I know! I’m Brilliant!!!

I wonder to this day, what in god’s name my definition of ‘okay’ was.

Time passed and I grew out of much of this.

• Life in general, yoga, running every morning, good friends.
• Then, motherhood, writing, running my business.
• And of course, a basic, on-going and un-ignorable drive to succeed and thrive.

They all helped, immeasurably. I was practically ‘normal’ again. But there was still this one little hanger-onner. You see, I took all of that angst and I shoved it somewhere that it wouldn’t really affect my daily life.

I put it all on a plane.

I flew a couple of times as a teenager after ‘the incident’ – and it was horrible – and I only did it because I, occasionally allowed myself to be forced to do things my parents told me I had to do. But whenever humanly possibly, I would drive back and forth from college (in Vermont) to home (in St. Louis), and then I would do the same from Boston, where I spent my 20′s. Mostly, I just didn’t go home. Mostly, I didn’t go anywhere.

I finally flew in November, 2000 (because I had two midwest weddings in the span of two weeks and I just couldn’t do the drive twice) – and I was thinking I might be okay, that I could do this flying thing again – even though I was terrified and hated it. And then 9/11 happened – and I climbed back into my ‘bad things happen when planes are added to the mix’ hole and mantra.

I didn’t fly again until last fall, nine years later.

Last fall is when I decided (in general) that if I was going to go down, at least I’d go down living. So I flew. Twice. And I was okay. As in really okay. It was practically enjoyable, this flying thing. (I even met a cute banker on the plane).

This weekend, I flew again.

It was easy. I liked it. (Except for the part where I felt nauseous from the turbulence, the part where I was going to use the barf bag for my orange peels and found someone’s chewed gum in it, and the part where I accidentally touched something wet and gross in the soup can lavatory.) This airplane took me to an amazing place, conference and community of people.

What it means to fly.

For me, it means that I’m not so scared anymore – or more importantly, that when I do get scared, I’m not going to let it stop me. It means that I’m living again. Flying, after all, was the last thing I was holding on to…

Underneath it all, that 15-year old self (the one that was alive before 10:30ish pm on October 22, 1988) has been waiting. She’s been pissed that her life was hijacked, and she’s been waiting to get her chance again.

Singing outloud

One of the millions of brilliant things I heard at SOBCon this weekend was this: If the only reason you aren’t doing something is that you’re scared, you absolutely have to do it.* It’s practically a neon sign flashing, “GO HERE! DO THIS! NOW!”

On Saturday night, in Chicago, I was taken to a karaoke (total dive) bar – and told that I would be singing, so I might as well pick a song. At that point, something happened to my body. “I am so not doing that!” – is what it sounded like. I was fascinated by my quick response, the lightening quick embodiment of my “NO!!!!” shield. So I asked myself why I was saying no. I looked and looked and looked and looked some more (hopin’ and prayin’ to find something, anything) – but there was only fear, as far as my internal eye could see.

The only reason I didn’t want to sing was that I was scared. I saw that truth, kicked it to the curb and sang – ridiculously, badly and with gusto. It was a duet – just me and my 15-year old self. And she was really loud.

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*Steve Farber said this. He is amazing and inspiring and delightfully humorous. Check him out and buy his books. I’m going to.

Image credit: carbonated