The Moose Pyjama Chronicles

Real Life is Made of Mondays

2019-04-21T12:45:00.000-04:00

Easter puts the Pheonix rising from the ashes to shame: Crucified on Friday. Rested on Saturday. Rose on Sunday. But what happened on Monday? After all the miracles—the dead brought back to life, the angel moving the boulder from the tomb, the doubts of Thomas quashed—I guess that was the day people had to just get on with life. In some ways, it seems a bit anti-climactic. But, when you think about it, metaphorically, that is when the nitty-gritty, nuts and bolts of life begins: on Mondays.

CRUCIFIED

Two weeks ago, I flew into London-Hethrow airport. The second I left the comfort of the Dreamliner and stepped into the passageway leading me toward the concrete building, I knew without any doubt that I was in the U.K.—not because of the cheerio accents or the fashion-forward men in tailored suits or signs that said “mind the gaps.” Yes, all of those things existed, but what brought my mind to align with my geographic location was the damp, cold air. I have never felt anything like it anywhere else. The air felt like a saturated wet sponge, and smelled like it, too. It permeated skin, flesh, and sinew, resting firmly in my bones. I shivered.

Finding the car-rental place wasn’t nearly as frightening as driving. And, by driving, I mean being a passenger. Leaving London during rush hour is gridlock. However, technically having gridlock would imply there is some kind a grid, which there is not. The whole of England is a giant spider web with London the epicentre, circled by the M25. Tentacles branch out in the form of round abouts—which are basically organized chaos (proof that the Brits share a common mind and are able to telepathically communicate as I did not witness one accident). One round about leads to another, to another, to another, until finally these circles reach the coasts. Our route, M25, A299, Thanet Way, Heart in Hand Road…

M-roads led to A-road, which eventually led to car-lined village roads—cars parked like a giant game of dominoes—bonnets to bonnets and boots facing boots with total disregard for the direction they faced. Finally, we arrived on hedge-clad country lanes, wide enough for half a car. My body reacclimatized to being shifted sharply to the left as we pulled over to let someone through, then thrown right as we rushed to the next junction to once again slide left, repeating the process.

The Italians have nothing on the Brits when it comes to carb consumption. I woke up to a typical breakfast of two oversized, over-processed whiter-than-white bread browned in a toaster on “crunchy cardboard” setting and a cuppa. A trip to Sainsbury’s saved me, where I purchased free range eggs, avocados and coffee to sustain me most mornings. Even their pudding had bread in it!

RESTING

Sketchy internet at best. No internet at worst. I came prepared to work, but I simply can’t.

At first, I started walking, then later running, to refuel my introverted soul. Seven hundred square feet and three larger-than-life personalities can, at times, be overwhelming if daily self-care isn’t exercised.

My first walk took my breath away for two reasons: the beauty and the cold. I trundled down Bishopstone Lane, backyard chickens chatting and roof-top pigeons cooing, past the farmer’s field, past the Saxon-Shore foot path and on to the large clip-top field that leads directly to Reculver Tower, Roman ruins approximately 2 km away. I was nearly swept off my feet by the whipping wind. I was walking at the edge of the mouth of the Thames estuary where the English Channel meets the North Sea. I was uncertain if the damp chill that cut me in half was from the British landscape, the revenge of the French, or the north Scandinavian influence. Regardless, it was memorable.

There was a sign at the beginning of this “country park” put up by the region of Canterbury exclaiming that all dogs must be on a leash. In my two weeks here so far, I have yet to see a dog on a leash. Dogs run rampant, the pets untethered and their owners unapologetic. All breeds—and if one dog is good, ten must be better—Roxy, Poppy, Toffy or other fanciful double-syllabic names were being called constantly, however, rarely heeded. But, to be fair, even single-syllable words sound like two here-ah.

As the number of days increase, so do the numbers on the thermometer. I still wear a woolly hat and gloves some days, but the natives are in shorts, sunning themselves on the “beaches.” A beach, by the way, is a large mass of very large pebbles, some may even say rocks, beside the sea.

RISING

There is a rebirth in me. I start to run regularly. I have never felt quite so free. At first it is 4 km, then 5, 7, 8… At home, when I ran, a long time ago, I would bring dog spray and worry about traffic or untoward people. Here, in this tiny village, on a bike path beside the sea running towards absolutely stunning ruins, I have little fear. I will miss this. I am grateful for this incredible opportunity afforded few: footpaths, cliffs, sea, sun, stunning architecture and history I will never get at home. Most importantly, untethered freedom.

MONDAY

Next week, God willing, I will arrive back in Canada. I will have to get my head down and get to work. I will face the daily grind—books to publish, products to market, presentations to complete. It will be my metaphorical Monday.

I have a choice to make. Do I take this freedom, beauty, and opportunity with me, or do I leave it here? The miracles will be over, the experience done, the holiday complete.

This is the time when the rubber meets the road, real life begins. My patterns have been interrupted, catapulting me into rediscovering myself. The rest is up to me—to take this feeling back with me, integrating, assimilating, and applying me new-found perspective.

This is the meaning of Easter Monday: moving forward, but moving forward with new knowledge, new passion, new conviction.

Happy Easter, everyone!

Merry Tuesday!

2018-12-25T12:43:00.000-05:00

I went for a “run” this morning and, much like my memory, it was short and slow. I have been nursing a shoulder injury and my dreams of training for a spring half marathon have been crushed by the sledge hammer of reality. It is a stunning day, sunny, crisp, a Tuesday, and incidentally it is December 25^th.

Footfall, breath, footfall—I spotted a man getting out of his car, heading for his trunk to unload presents to take into a nearby house. Footfall, “Good morning” gulping breath, footfall. He looked up and smiled, “Good morning,” he answered. Hesitation. He continued, “Merry Christmas.” Footfall, breath, and then….

My thoughts went back to a few days ago when I saw a friend of mine post on social media about a local restaurant opening its doors on Christmas. She finished the post with, “No one should be alone on Christmas.”

Now I know you must be thinking exactly what I am thinking: What an absolutely horrid, thoughtless thing to say!

Huh? No? Really?!? You weren’t thinking that?

I absolutely, without a doubt, know that the intention of this statement was steeped deeply in love. But I am starting to fear that this type of sentiment is feeding an arbitrary societal construct that is growing to obese proportions, a construct that may actually be doing more harm than good.

What are we telling people? Let’s take a closer look at this statement: No one should be alone on Christmas. If that is true, then the corollary would be: If I find myself alone (by choice or circumstances) on Christmas, I shouldn’t be. But I am. Why? Does this mean there is something wrong with me?

And if this doesn’t make you insecure enough, there is all the media pumping you with messages to prey on your sense of self with everything from advertising to sappy Hallmark movies that feature the bookshop owner/ad agency exec/writer/Christmas tree farm owner who isn’t complete until she falls in love with the lawyer/architect/chef and moves back to her small hometown. I know this to be fact as I have watched Every. Single. One. And, let’s not forget the mandatory hot cocoa, cookie-making, snow ball fighting, skating rink, and tree decorating scenes. And, god forbid you be single at Christmas (I have news for all you single people out there—ninety-five percent of those who are coupled are probably wishing they weren’t….)

The pressure this season can create really hit home last week. My grandson, who is nine, discovered the secret location of all the unwrapped gifts. He conscripted his sister to partner with him in crime to investigate the hidden treasures. He would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t decided to video tape it. I take comfort in the fact that he doesn’t have a highly developed criminal mind. Reminded me of the time someone scribbled all over one of my chairs. When confronted with the situation, he blamed it on his younger sister. I sighed and said as an afterthought to myself, “I wonder if it is pen or pencil on there.” His cover was blown when he boldly affirmed, “Oh, it is pencil.”

Upon getting busted for the gift fiasco, he felt bad, inappropriately and over-the-top bad for “ruining” Christmas for his sister and himself. I won’t go into details, but the pressure and self-loathing that transpired broke my heart—and he is only nine.

“It’s only a day, Bud. Sure, it might have been more exciting if you hadn’t seen the presents first, but it’s not the end of the world. In fact, when I was little, my brother Doug used to secretly unwrap and rewrap his presents all the time!”

“Seriously?”

“Yep, not a word of a lie,” I assured him.

“Huh, I didn’t know that.”

This is scary to me…when the need for “Christmas magic” outweighs the need for healthy perspective and outlook. And we are force fed the impossible ideal...even at nine.

It’s an intensified season…for those who are grieving, those who are alone, those who are facing poverty, those with mental illness, those whose family situation has recently changed. And, here’s the thing—it’s all based on a completely ethereal and shaky concept at best. Why? So stores can sell stuff. And, we all buy in, hook, line and sinker. Maybe those JWs are on to something after all…

And, challenging the construct of Christmas is like challenging Donald Trump. If you do, it you will get called names: Grinch or Scrooge. Words that are now completely part of our lexicon. Hmmm, maybe Dickens or Dr. Seuss were illuminati…

Don’t get me wrong, getting together with family, expressing love, breaking bread with friends, sharing gifts, all amazing and wonderful things to do. But pinning so much pressure and expectation onto one particular date, I am not sure it serves us. It does serve capitalism, insecurity, and a sense of inadequacy, however.

The fact of the matter, today is Tuesday. And, although I spent last night with some of my kids and will be spending this afternoon with others, I did not buy gifts. I haven’t really for years now—at least not for Christmas. I might get my daughter a Starbucks randomly or send a surprise package to a friend but I have completely let go of the societal construct. I may put up a tree, I may not. I might buy a gift for someone or I might not. When my parents had their cottage, I would literally run away for the day and drink tea and eat chocolate biscuits for breakfast on December 25. And, you know what? It is absolutely liberating! I refuse to hang all my good memories on a particular date. I want to live my life and create memories on my own terms!

Breath, footfall, hesitation. “Merry Tuesday!” I responded. He looked slightly confused, smiled and walked his presents towards the house.

So, if you find yourself not fitting the typical Hallmark postcard picture of Christmas today, either by choice or circumstance, if you are facing intense adversity and heartache, here is my holiday message to you:

You got this! It’s just a Tuesday.

A Reminder for You—You Got This!

2018-11-14T15:40:00.000-05:00

I want to run more. In fact, the medicinal properties enhance my mental wellness. It is impossible to finish a run in the same mood one starts it in. It either ends in euphoria or exhaustion—both of these cousin-emotions afford a certain amount of relief regardless of which one shows up. When in the fluid form of movement, my trapped and ragged feelings radiate from my heart down into my feet, inevitably bleeding out with each footfall. I am proud to say it has been a week of sticking to a training plan, and it is already helping.

Then came yesterday. I didn’t want to run. Actually, I didn’t think I could will myself to do it: first nasty snowfall, tired, fighting a cold, didn’t sleep the night before. And the emotional dread of the impossible week before me. But run I did—not becauseI thought I could, but rather because someone else did. Let me explain. It all began with an email of immeasurable worth…

It was a letter of encouragement from a friend, but not like the notes I send: Hey, thinking of you, (heart emoji), hope everything is OK. This letter made my feeble messages look like they were penned by Mussolini himself. No, no, this was a full-on tome, a 576-word epistle of sorts (Yep, I did a word count), and beautifully written to boot. The subject read: Heather, a Reminder for You. This person who I haven’t known very long (yet already know is a key piece in the jigsaw of my life) took the time to write not only edifying words, but also made their case with a body of evidence better than a high-profile lawyer—expect in this instance, the glove actually fit.

In many ways, we are different in biblical proportions—lion and the lamb stuff. But sometimes life doesn’t need explanations, it just needs kindness. The email started:

To Heather.

Strong.

Kind.

Introspective and observant.

Funny and open minded.

Compassionate and knowledgeable.

I read the words, but they at first didn’t even permeate the surface because yesterday I did not believe any of those things about myself. Sometimes, when we are worn, we can no longer be our own cheerleader. We are depleted. The battery in our heart weakens and can’t restart. It is then, when someone attaches invisible jumper cables, black lead to right ventricle, red lead to left, they beat for us until we are able to draw enough power to once again ignite independently.

One line used to prove I was strong was: When you are tired, you run. As the day wore on, it played on loop and slowly permeated my being. The currents of the jumpstart were kicking in. I pulled out my Lululemon pants and reached for my iPod—then, put it down again. I decided this time I would run with only the ruminations in my head and the grief in my heart.

Apparently breathing is tough to do when you are sobbing and trying to run up a hill simultaneously. Who knew? A guy on his way to his car in his driveway gave me a concerned looked as I passed by. I sucked up my tears long enough to nod and give strong non-verbal cues that he should not venture to ask me how I was.

It is coming up to being one-full year since Jaymison was born. November 16, a family birthdate closest to my own. I was one of very few fortunate to hold his washed and swaddled body—a lifeless vessel that had once housed his living soul. A perfectly formed being that looked as much like his dad as he did his mom. There is an intimacy in shared trauma that can’t be explained to someone who wasn’t there…and I won’t even try. But I will tell you about the sadness.

It is a different sort of grief. It is not the pain of missing someone you knew and loved for years or the ache of someone gone. Instead it is a death of another type, a more universal kind, a more ethereal concept: a firsthand look at the wider vision of the world and its cruelty and unfairness. It is a moral injury, a loss of innocence, the realization that there isn’t always a natural order and things don’t always work out. It is not the sadness of mourning; it is the weight of a permeating heaviness.

The night before the delivery, when we knew Jaymison was gone, I did not know what to say to my son, Jason. I remember telling him that this was going to be the hardest thing he would have to face in his life to date, that I was proud of him.

“You got this,” I managed.

He could do it. I believed in him when I wasn’t sure he had the strength to believe in himself. It was my turn to boost a failing battery.

Now, a year later, I see the echoes of my own speech sent back to me through fiber optics, the circuit of the energy making its rounds throughout our humanity. I read, unabashed trenches of salty water staining my face: It is for all of these things and much more, Heather, that you will survive and conquer this hurdle ahead of you. You will dominate sadness and triumph with perseverance atop of the podium of victory.

Heather, you got this!I know you do.

***

Last week, my daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby boy named Miles. I will love and cherish him. He is a wonderful gift. And although I have five living grandchildren, Miles is not my fifth grandchild. Jason and Mirada, I want you to know that Miles is, and always will be, grandchild number six.

A Reminder for you,

You got this!

I. Am. Enough.

2018-10-08T21:40:00.000-04:00

I ran with my grandson for the first time ever the other day. Tuesday dawns with his very first cross-county meet, and I wanted to make sure he was prepared. After traversing the two kilometers, I was completely spent. Logan, however, remained filled with enough youthful energy to attempt to teach me the moves of the “floss.” For those fortunate enough not to be familiar with the floss, it is a dance that resembles an upright grand mal seizure punctuated by flailing Frankenstein-esque stiffened arms in a specific, yet what some may describe as spastic, sequence. Sadly, and somewhat obviously, I was not a quick study.

So, I am experiencing some trepidation before heading out on what would be my longest run since the diagnosis of my ACL injury: 7.5 kilometres. Can I do it? I start the morning by reading a blog by A Medic’s Mind, and its core—its somewhat ethereal message—permeates my grey matter, just resting there, percolating below the surface, waiting to spill out at just the right moment. My thoughts are interrupted by my daughter Charity’s call. Her friend’s house just down the street from her had caught fire that morning (Happy Thanksgiving). Luckily all escaped unscathed, but the damage was extensive. Charity busies herself corralling help for the family of 6 humans and 2 dogs—gathering clothes for the baby, asking me to buy formula, talking to those who may be able to help to find the displaced and shocked family a place to stay.

I love a lot of people, deeply and fiercely: family and friends. (And even though I run alone now, I still love you, Karen and Lyndsay, despite that fact you both deserted me for such trivialities such as finding your life’s cruelty-free purpose or creating and raising an incredible human. Yes, I am able to overlook these obvious displays of blatant abandonment.)

This morning, as I watch Charity run towards disaster, I realize that my kids love deeply, too. They are really good people. I am proud of them. I watched when Jason held and shielded his wife after their devastating loss, I see as Charity advocates relentlessly for her special needs kids, and I observe how patient Candice is with her two-year-old, who believe me, requires more patience than I can muster some days. I know, because they live with me.

I believe my kids are this way, at least in part, because of the army of people who helped to raise them: their biological parents who gave them life, who did the best they could while battling their own demons—and loving deeply enough to know that their kids would be better cared for elsewhere; for my parents who always supported my kids to the nth degree, and took Jason into their home for years; for my brothers, my sister-in-law, my nieces and nephew and their families. Countless times they have run to our disasters, proving time and time again that action-oriented love is the best kind of all.

I decide to go for my run, earbuds in, Garmin set. Left foot, right foot, slow, very slow, I start. My mind wanders to a few months ago when I had a cardiac “event.” I have no idea why they call it an event. It really is a misleading term. To me, an event is a party, a concert, a gala, something fun. This was not fun.

The only time I will go to the hospital is if someone around me is in distress. I will drive them. I do not go, as a general rule, if I am to be the patient. Even when I had sliced my hand open to the bone, splicing my tendon, I exhausted three walk-in clinics who refused to see me, before conceding that maybe I needed to go to Emerge. I was extremely surprised to learn I had to get stitches inside and out. I honestly thought it was nothing. So when a few months back, I was overcome with excruciating and unexpected pain in my chest and stomach, I actually asked someone to take me to the hospital and no one questioned me.

I was triaged right to the ECG machine, checking to see if I was in the middle of a heart attack. Slightly irregular but not alarming to the nurse. The doctor was a little more cautious. Blood tests and hours to wait for follow-up blood tests, looking for dreaded enzymes.

I arrived at supper time, but was still littering the hallways with my reticent presence in the early morning, waiting for more results—and the only thing on my mind? When will I be able to leave because I promised Charity I would babysit because she finally got a specialist appointment for one of her kids. It was 5 a.m., I spotted the doctor, and I couldn’t help myself…what happened next was involuntary: moth to flame, gambler to casino, a forty-something female to an episode of “This is Us.”

“Hi. Excuse me,” He looked at me. I continued, “Would you happen to know when I am being released? My granddaughter has an appointment that we have been waiting months to get, and I have to be at my daughter’s house by 8 a.m…” I heard myself talking but had no control over the words coming out of my mouth.

He may have been an emergency physician by profession, but he had the angry principal look down to a T. “You are a fifty-one-year old who came in here presenting with severe chest pains and your ECG has some irregularities. I. Think. This. Is. More. Important.” His enunciation really was impeccable.

Touche.

At 6 a.m. I phoned my daughter, “Hey, nothing to worry about, but I am in the hospital…I had some chest pains... I am really, really sorry. I don’t know if I can make it to babysit. Is there any way someone else can help out?”

A voice that could only be described as incredulous answered, “MOM, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT BABYSITTING. Are you okay? What happened?” It had never really occurred to me that she might prefer me to stay in the hospital and figure things out.

Finally, after Sargent Major ended his shift, a new, more laid-back physical released me with a return date for follow-up testing.

No one is sure what happened. My slightly irregular heart sings in flawless rhythm when it is stressed, however. I watched as I began to run on the treadmill, the scrawling picture of my imperfect heartbeats blossoming into strong, uniform, shining examples of my heart contracting, pumping oxygenated blood throughout my body. Turns out, my heart is happiest when I am running. But, I didn’t need a stress test to find that out. My soul already knew that to be true.

So today, while running, reflecting on the blog I had read in the morning, and thinking upon the blip I had with my heart, I started to realize and think about the fact that I am loved. It may sound crazy, but I had never really given much thought to that concept before in my life. I had spent my entire existence being so busy loving people, I had never taken stock of how fiercely I am loved. And, not because I deserve it. I have failed every person who has come into my life at one time or another—repeatedly, largely, deeply, profoundly.

So, on this day of giving thanks, I allow this realization to permeate into my being for an inaugural visit with my soul. I think of all my family and friends who love me…for no other reason than I am on this planet. Letting this thought in can only be described as expcruciatingly humbling. At exactly 3.5 kilometres into my run, this experience reduces me to a blubbering puddle of tears (well, that and maybe the fact that I am trying to go up a hill and a dead skunk is perfuming the air with a nauseating musk—one can’t be completely sure). I am loved by the simple virtue that I exist. I am enough.

And with this thought that blankets my being with joy, I push through. I push through the intensity of the emotion willing me to stop. I push through the hill. I even push by the dead skunk. And, I finish the 7.5 kilometers with enough energy left over to try to attempt a victory dance of the floss with the grace of a one-year-old eating birthday cake with their hands.

I am enough. You are enough. We are all enough.

*Please take a moment to read the original post by A Medic’s Mind that inspired this post, click here.

PS. If you are either my mother or father and you are reading this, please note this is not a real tattoo.

Remembering the Right Combination to Unlock Joy

2017-06-10T19:22:00.000-04:00

My ability to swim is only slightly surpassed by my ability to text, which is marginally better than my ability to twitter on the tweeting machine—and unfortunately I perform those tasks so well, I am qualified to run for president.

In fact, last week, after Tammy and I popped in to visit our friend Natalie, my texting skills were brought to light. Half the time my fingers hit the wrong buttons, half the time the autocorrect has a different agenda, and the other half of the time I have the keyboard set to French. Is that too many halves? Oh well, you get my drift.

A couple of months ago, while exploring the metropolis of Meaford, I found myself very hungry, standing in front of the local coffee shop at 3:02 p.m., face streaming with tears, because, apparently, in Meaford, coffee shops shut at 3:00 p.m. What? You bunch of country bumpkins. Does no one drink coffee past 3?

I texted Natalie for advice:

Me: Did u knew the coffae ship in Meaford class at 3? What kand if town is tis???

Nat: Huh? Lol

Me: John id doing soins check for tonught si I an windering aimlessly

Nat: You need to get your blood sugars up before you text Lol!

Me: OMH, Yeis.

Nat: Do you need an ambulance girl?

Me: haha. I just fawnd anuther café. Catering place. It us culled Kitchen.

Nat: Simple enough. Are they going to feed you so that you can text in English?

Me: Hahah…I hop sow lol

Confeve that convo…

So, given this history, it is no surprise, when shortly after Tammy and I left Natalie’s house, I texted: “We need u. We need a leash” that she assumed I was up to my hypoglycemic texting tricks again. However, in reality, Tammy and I had found a loose dog, wandering the streets. The little, sweet dog appeared to be confused and we were corralling her in hopes of keeping her safe. Natalie’s reply: LoL!! Oh Heather. Get some sugar in your body!

Me: Nope lol

This obviously isn’t going to plan. Trying to clarify the confusing situation, I try again.

Me: Dooug

Nat: Yes: Lol! I’m Peron laughing

Peron laughing? Who’s hypoglycemic now, Natalie?

Me: Huh?

Nat: Oooops! Peeing

I still don’t have a leash. Finally Natalie hangs her head out the window and we clear up my texting fiasco, and Natalie and her son Adam come outside with a leash. She kindly takes the dog to the local vet and luckily thirteen-year-old Bebe was microchipped and is returned to her rightful owner.

As mentioned, my swimming skills are probably even worse. However, with a torn ACL and 25% of my meniscus gone in my right knee (knowledge courtesy of MRI and incessant Sarah McLachlan music in my earphones) I need some type of physical activity. That and the fact that it seems no matter what I do, I keep gaining weight.

So, Lyndsay and I plan on going swimming together. Now, there is something you should know. Lyndsay and I have the combined organizational skills of a six-month-old. In fact, I identify her car not by the license plate, but by looking in the back seat. If it looks like the residence of three homeless people, I know I have the right vehicle. Even the most populous back alleys of Mumbai can’t rival the interior of her car--a scene straight from of Slum Dog Millionaire. I remember looking in once to see one high heel shoe, countless Tim Horton cups, a half-eaten bagel, a macramé project and possibly a dead body (I can’t be sure).

Given this information, it is no surprise that the following text thread starts:

Lyndsay: How are you feeling about swimming? Still able to? I have to find my stuff.

Me: I have to find my stuff too.

No shocker there. It's only the morning of the planned event and neither of us has bothered to locate any of our swimming gear.

Lyndsay: OK. Great

Me: I have found everything except swimsuit and lock.

Which is only half true. I had found two locks, both locked permanently to my swim bag because I can’t remember the combinations.

Lyndsay: Ok…I need find my goggles and lock.

(two minutes later)

Me; Found suit.

Lyndsay: Found lock.. Just need goggles. I’m very excited. I have to spend some time primping first.

Me: I found two pairs of goggles now.

(two-minute pause)

Lyndsay: I think we should swim more regularly to keep up on grooming habits and gentle reminders of what it feels like to squeeze yourself into sausage casing.

I am laughing pretty hard right now, but that isn’t the punchline.

Lyndsay: My suit is so tight it’s correcting my posture….

On the way to the pool, I go out to the dollar store to find a replacement lock...(s). Knowing that this predicament occurs every time I stop swimming for over a week, I pick up one, no two, what that heck, four locks. They are only $2 each.

I get home and put on my suit, but it seems to have altered. It has been over a year, what could possibly change? It appears that the elastic in the bit that is supposed to snuggly cover my bottom has given up, completely lost its will to live. There is a full inch of slack between the material and my backside causing the suit to naturally ride up in a sort of permanent wedgy position. It is incredibly uncomfortable and awkward for me, but not nearly as much as it is for anyone who has to witness the scene.

Upon arrival to the pool Lyndsay and I chat about the beautiful day:

“It is so nice out today. We could have swam in the lake," Lyndsay mentions.

“Yeah, that way we wouldn’t have to ingest all that toxic chlorine. We could drink the oil from the boats and the refuse from the city’s water treatment plant instead.” I cheerfully chirp.

“Yeah, except here we are in a controlled environment that when we start to drown, we are more likely to be rescued.”

“True dat.” And with off into the pool we go.

I like swimming because it seems like it should be the quickest route to Michelle Obama shoulders. I love her shoulders. I would give anything to wear one of those tops with cut out arms and look like her. I tried on one of those tops once, and I looked less like Michelle Obama and more like Buddhist prayer flags flapping at Mount Everest Base Camp.

Slow and steady--well maybe just slow (after all, it is called front crawl)--we traverse the pool, back and forth like pensioners walking laps around the perimeter of our long-term care facility in our zoom-a-frames. And, it feels…good. Moving meditation. That is what I miss most about running: the space between the moments when you float, suspended. There are no worries of miscommunication or bathing suits that have failed us or the craziness of the world. Instead I simply focus on one arm in front of the other. And since I am such a bad swimming, I really MUST focus solely on this movement…or I will drown. Literally. I am serious. I swim like a rock. The stakes are kind of high: lift arm, don’t drown, pull arm through water, don’t drown, breathe, don’t drown, repeat.

After the peaceful swim, we somehow find ourselves at Starbucks. How does that happen? I enjoy chatting and catching up and think, why don’t I make more time for these types of moments, moments of laughing and peace, moments for ME? Instead I often choose to drown in my daily challenges instead of taking those moments to just be and enjoy life's simple joys. Sigh. This is one padlock I want to try to remember the combination to!

It’s time for AA – Autism Anonymous NO LONGER!

2016-11-10T16:39:00.000-05:00

I ran today. More on that later…

…..

Hello, my name is Heather and my grandson is autistic--and I couldn’t be prouder. I am not proud just because he is my grandson. I am not proud despite the fact he is autistic. I am not proud because he is high functioning. I am proud he is autistic. End of. It’s pretty, darn cool.

Autism isn’t a disease, disability or something you cure. I get annoyed when people want to “fix” this fascinating, wonderful, diverse and incredible way of thinking. Imagine how history would be altered if Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, Nicola Tesla, or Mozart were “cured” of their autistic traits?

L is hands down my favourite grandson (so far). He is sensitive, analytical, literal, and advanced beyond imagination. He will cry as he recounts going on holiday a year ago as he remembers what it felt like to miss the very dog he holds in his arms. He knows everything about Minecraft and French fries, routine and technology. He is amazing and incidentally has the best sense of direction and humour of any kid I have ever met—ever!

I have told this story many times, however I am telling it again, (deal with it). When he was three, L got a hold of my phone. He went to the app store, purchased a racing game (with my credit card), downloaded it, loaded it and played it, all while I was trying to figure out how to change the TV input from satellite to the DVD.

These minds deserve celebrating.

However, today, while trolling, I read a post by a friend (well, former friend) on Facebook who is a nurse who I believe has her Masters and possibly even a Ph.D. and who at one point was a nursing instructor in an accredited Ontario College. It showed a picture of a man, maybe in his early 20s sitting in a crouched position sucking his thumb. The caption read: Yes. As a matter of fact that is a grown man, at the ariport in the fetal position, sucking his thumb…Nice shoes though.

It got worse, with the ever-continuing comments:

thought children eventually grew out of that

true, but he wasn’t wearing diapers

maybe he was

smiley face.

NOT COOL. To me, he was obviously on the ASD spectrum (and it was obvious to many others who commented after I did)

I am assuming no malice was intended, I mean I have in fact been guilty of smiling at a “People of Walmart” photo or two…But, come on. YOU ARE A NURSE!

Sometimes when I get offended on Facebook, I simply disengage, but if it is something to do with cats, GMOs or autism, I simply lose my poop, and throw-up my opinions all over the internet. Can’t help myself. Today was no exception. However, I was polite (somewhat):

Devil’s advocate—could be ASD, could be stimming. I look at people differently now after having some experience with this.

I thought I showed exceptional restraint, right?

Last year, my grandson wasn’t able to attend an upcoming birthday party. A parent of another child was asking my daughter if L was going to this particular party. My daughter answered, “No.” The other parent’s response was devastating, “I’m not letting so-and-so go either. I won’t let him go that house. The older brother is autistic.”

NOT COOL.

When my daughter recounted the story, I was dumbfounded and asked what she said and she said, “Nothing.” She didn’t know what to say. I can tell you it was a good thing I wasn’t there. I don’t think I would have given a flying…monkeys (you know that isn’t the actual word I am thinking) and probably would have casually mentioned that L was autistic also…just to see the expression on her face.

I am starting to think we need to be proud and loud! No more keeping things quiet. Let’s celebrate and nurture the scientific and artistic minds that belong to those with autism. Let’s say “No” to Autism Anonymous.

……

Back to the running part…I haven’t been faithful with my runs, but I was so worked up, I actually wanted to run off some steam. And, to be honest, my faith in humanity has faltered in connection with a recent political development south of the border. I am also working on editing a book about how to deal with emotions, and apparently I am supposed to feel them and let flow through me instead of hang onto them. The only way anything was going to flow through me today was if I ran.

It went well until the final 200 meters from the house. I think I experienced what others refer to as a panic attack. My windpipe just closed up without warning or reason. I couldn’t breathe and I was gasping uncontrollably….and it wasn’t due to the speed of my running, trust me.

Then the concepts taught by one of my friends (and positive coach), Louise Aspden came to mind. This is totally my interpretation—but she advocates just trying to get to a slightly more positive place than where you are at the moment. You don’t have to leap straight to rainbows and unicorns all at once, just try to see something a little better and brighter by applying gratitude. I looked at the beautiful fall trees, stopped (obviously) until the panic attack subsided and breathed in the smell of the warm, fresh air and realized it felt really good to have run. There, just a little better.

Tomorrow is Remembrance Day. Wow, many people paid the ultimate sacrifice for freedom, and I cannot truly comprehend the magnitude of their valour. Really, I can’t. But, I am thankful. What a gift—and I don’t want to waste it.

It’s a new world and I believe a new type of warrior needs to be born—a warrior of love, compassion, and hope. A warrior who quietly but politely speaks up and says, “Not cool.” A warrior who does not accept traditional weaknesses as imperfections but as celebrations of humanity. A warrior who uplifts and exhalts rather than tears down. A warrior who cares for the elderly, the children, the poor, the vulnerable--even if that means not sneaking that picture in the airport. We’re all in the same trench, people! Wake up.

It’s time to be anonymous no longer.

Defying Logic

2016-10-02T15:37:00.001-04:00

I think my cat is building a nuclear bomb in the basement. Little did I know when I affectionately (and inappropriately) named her “Lambe,” I was creating a study in ironic names. I think she is the secret spirit-offspring of Evel Kenievel and Albert Einstein, mixed in with a dash of Winehouse melancholy. I am not yet sure if she is simply a daredevil or perpetually suicidal. It’s hard to say. To put it in context, my dearly departed cat, Echo, is Mother Teresa compared to Lambe (and I once affectionately referred to Echo as the Spawn of Satan).

Yesterday she successfully pooped out a 10-foot length of yarn. The thing is, I keep my yarn behind locked doors now. So, the only logical conclusion is that she is able to teleport items through solid walls. It wouldn’t surprise me. She is quite smart. She could easily have an advanced degree in physics. All the previous pets, if cast in the wild would be lucky to last a day. I believe this one would not only have no problem, but she would organize a colony, get voted in as leader of the feline mafia, and take over the world.

If Lamb is underneath the bed, it sounds like a construction road-works zone. I have no idea what she is doing (and probably never will), but I am pretty certain it is bad. When I stealthily plummet my head to the floor, all noise ceases immediately, and she innocently stares at me with those big yellow-green eyes as if saying. “What’s up?” My fear, of course, is she is secretly burrowing holes in the structural integrity of the bed, and one day I will get in and it will collapse—a fate much worse for her than me, by the way.

At the age of 8 weeks, Lambe almost died by running through the spindles in the hall, only to fall 9 feet to the hardwood floor below. Luckily she survived. Since then she has climbed walls, climbed curtains, climbed people, jumped in the toilet, jumped out of the toilet, jumped in the bathtub (whilst I was still in it), got herself stuck behind a dresser, got her head stuck in the spindles of the chair, got herself accidentally locked into the front porch, thrown up yarn and unidentifiable fluorescent green and red spongy squares, climbed on my desk and pulled out all the push pins and papers on my office cork board using her mouth (all of my papers are now pinned to the very top quarter of my bulletin board, right next to the ceiling), and of course, the most recent yarn-poo incident. I am not even going to list the electrical cord, fan, blinds, shoelace, rug, plug, cardboard and zipper incidents, as they are too plentiful for a single blog.

She might be the only cat who has her own bedroom. Not because we want to separate her from us. We have it for her own safety when we go out. There are no plugs, no cords, or blinds. At one point, I padded the floor (for real), but she started dismantling it.

It’s not necessarily logical (unless you are a cat person), but I love her to pieces. I love the way she gently pats my face, or chirps at the window, her loud purr when I bring out her favourite blanket, and her crazy, entertaining personality. Some things cannot be explained by logic.

This summer, I watched only one aspect of the Olympics, and that was the men’s marathon. This wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in any other sports, but because I accidentally turned on the TV at that moment. I love watching distance runners, especially professional marathon athletes. Maybe it’s the pure beauty, or maybe it is because it took me twice as long to cover the same distance.

The outstanding athlete who won the marathon was Kenya’s Eliud Kipchoge, but to me, the more interesting story was the American bronze-medalist, Galen Rupp. Why, you may ask? Well, he hasn’t been a marathon runner before…as in ever. He is a middle-distance 10,000-metre kind of guy. In fact, he had never competed in a marathon until the Olympic Marathon Trials on February 13, 2016. So, when he flew across that finish line in Rio, it was only his second marathon! That is pretty incredible.

During a post-race interview, in a wave of inspiration, Rupp quoted and gave credit to ~~his parents, Mahatma Gandh~~i, ~~Coach Alberta Salazar~~ an Adam Sander’s movie, because isn’t that who all American’s admire? As I sat there, stunned, I transitioned from laughter at the absurdity of it, to nodding my head in agreement. Wait, he might be onto something here!

The movie in question is Happy Gilmore, a film in which the main character wants desperately to be a hockey player, but discovers he in fact is a much better golfer. Galen was using this strangely Yoda-esque analogy to express how thankful he was to be open to trying something other than his usual middle-distance. Instead of him choosing his path, his path chose him. He always thought of himself as a 10,000 racer all these years, where in fact, he might really be a marathon runner.

This got me thinking. Since the discovery of a torn meniscus and ACL in my right leg, maybe I need to uncover something other than my former marathon training as my “thing.”

So after giving this concept some serious consideration, it appears the next logical goal is quite obvious—I should become a triathlete. It makes complete sense--other than the swimming, biking--and now with my knee--running parts...

Up until last year I didn’t know how to swim at all. Thanks to my friend, Lyndsay, and lots of hours on YouTube, I can now traverse across the 25-meter expanse of a pool-lap sans drowning. (We did try swimming in Lake Simcoe last summer, but again, that deserves its own entry…) And, I don’t own a road bike. In fact, the technician who tuned up my antique mountain bike who, incidentally is at least a third the age of the bike itself, told me they now actually make shocks for bikes. Who knew? It certainly is a brave, new world.

This decision defies logic. Like my cat or Galen Rupp switching from middle to long-distance running, some things just don’t make sense. So, why do it?

Well, I have discovered that when you accomplish something you believe is on the edge of impossible for you, it provides a sense of wonder and discovery that is difficult to articulate.

So, I guess it is time to make a declaration and put a plan together. I am going to “Try-a-Tri” next summer. Pretty sure there will be lots of mishaps to write about along the way! For the first time in over a year, I have to go plug in that Garmin.

Cheers to defying logic.

The Story of an ECHO

2016-05-04T13:03:00.001-04:00

The Story of an ECHO, ECHO, echo, echo, echo

echo · n. repeat: resound

I only have had two cats that I would truly call my own: Caledore and Echo. I inherited Caledore when we moved into a house where the owners moved out, however the cat didn't get the memo or managed to miss the closing date. Regardless, she decided that moving was not in her life-plan, and she hung around. I inherited the second one, Echo, when Candice moved away, but Echo did not. Life is sometimes a series of repeats.

Echo was a cat purchased purely out of guilt and desperation. My daughter Candice and I were living together in a little rented town home--just the two of us. Caledore had passed, leaving my favourite red head in quite a funk. I also wanted Candice to get a part time job. So, using the best and most cutting-edge parenting techniques, I did the upstanding thing--I bribed her: you get a job and I'll let you have a cat.

It worked. Candice got a job, and I found myself at the rescue section of Petsmart looking at all the cats. I really liked the look of a Tabby/Calico cross that was quite petite and pretty. Her name was Callie. We liked the cat but not the name.

When asked about her "story" the kind volunteer shared some information.

"This cat had been rescued and brought to the OSPCA, but was then scheduled to be taken to the headquarters in Newmarket to be destroyed."

(Probably because of her cheery disposition, no doubt)

"Furry Friends literally rescued her from the van."

"She was adopted out last week. However, she was returned the next day."

(Probably because of her cheery disposition, no doubt)

"Why?" I asked.

The volunteer had the avoidance tactics of a seasoned politician. She smiled her most charming smile and put on the best used-car saleperson voice known to mankind, "Someone in the family was...uhhh...allergic to cats."

There was a slight wince. I should have clued in, but love is blind--and apparently deaf and stupid because I believed her.

Sold.

$99 and they would get her fixed to seal the deal.

When we brought her home from the operation she was quiet and lovely. Candice re-named her Echo, after the Greek nymph who first loved Narcissus, but then was loved by Pan. She spent her days sitting on Candice's bed quietly and greeting me at the door when I got home from work. She was an angel.

Until...the day I took her to the vet’s office. I was in the middle of describing what a terrific rescue she was when she morphed into the spawn of Satan. All claws, hiss and fur. I ended up being escorted out of the office as the veterinary staff began donning hazmat gear as if preparing for a nuclear holocaust. They literally bagged Echo so only her head was sticking out, making her innocuous enough without the use of her legs or claws to administer her injections. (Probably due to her cheery disposition, no doubt).

I will never forget when Candice spent hours on a biology project about polar bears. She created this lovely presentation on bristol board that included inkjet pictures of polar bears. Unfortunately, Echo loved the taste of ink. And, due to the fact that polar bears don't require a lot of ink because they are basically white, their faces were the only appealing part to Echo. Candice woke up to a project that featured pictures of faceless polar bears. I had to write a note to the teacher explaining that the cat licked the homework, something I never imagined having to do.

The bribing incident with my daughter had made sense until it dawned on me that she might move out and go to college that fall. Candice was accepted into the vet tech program in Haileybury, hours north of Barrie, however Echo did not pass the entrance exam.

At this point I lived completely alone and worked from home in solitude. Well, I wasn't completely alone. There was always an Echo. I would take breaks and have discussions with her, or we would literally run around the house together. She slept by my knees at night and watched me work by day. She was always "there."

When Candice came back home during a break, it was apparent that Echo (from her cheery disposition, no doubt) was no longer Candice's cat. The shift had taken place, and there was no turning back. Candice acquired her own feline companion up north, which she named Pan, because in Greek mythology, you wouldn't have an Echo without a Pan.

Echo and I moved to a basement apartment together, then into my very first (and only) home that I owned all by myself.

Finally came the big move, when Echo was no longer the only child. She had to adjust to being part of the blended family of two border-collie/Australian Shepherd dogs.

A couple of years in she became sick. However, she knew how to communicate. Always using her litter box, she changed it up and decided to show me her distress by peeing blood against the white bathtub. Upon another hazardous visit to the vet (because of her cheery disposition, no doubt), it was discovered she had stones. But, true to her name, Echo wasn't going to stop the repetition of survival. Instead, we were able to dissolve the stones.

Echo knew when Hank was sick and stayed by his side until the very end. When we brought back a collar without a dog, she edged towards it, and when within three feet of it, jumped back on all fours. I've never seen anything like it. She somehow knew.

She and Kanoock looked for a new normal. And for 3 days they fought. But, as history repeats itself, she was once again about to adjust and they became good friends.

Recently, she became sick and I took her in yesterday to be "put down." She (due to her sunny disposition, no doubt) wanted nothing to do with this procedure. She was 15 years old and hadn't eaten for nearly 5 days. She was a mere 5.5 lbs instead of her once 11 lbs. She had an 8 cm tumour crowding her organs and pressing up against her stomach. True to form, even though sedated first, she managed to growl through the whole process.

I thought that would be the tough bit, and once that was over, I would be fine. I seriously had no idea how wrong I would be.

You see Pan, the Greek god of the wild, loved Echo, who had a beautiful voice, so much that when he couldn't be with her, he put Panic into the shepherds who tore her apart and scattered her EVERYWHERE. Now, whenever you hear an echo today, you are hearing a bit of her scattered self.

That's the issue I didn't account for. Echo is EVERYWHERE: on the chair where she slept, in the boxes I use for work, by the water dish, sleeping by the fireplace, the comforting presence that was with me all those years I lived alone. And, I miss that assurance.

She certainly used up her nine lives:

The OSPCA rescue
Furry Friends rescue
Returned adoption
Our adoption
Candice leaving
The de-clawing incident (due to her cheery disposition, no doubt--and the dismantling of my face)
Stones
The treadmill incident
Losing Hank

There is another version of the Greek myth, however. In this story Pan and Echo have two children: Lambe and Lynx. I am already hoping that sometime in the future there will be opportunity for this pattern to once again resound.

I have blogged about Echo quite a bit. Two entries in particular in 2011 deal extensively with her--January 21 and August 28 (if you want to look back and read a couple of funny stories about my feline). I'd like to leave you with an illustration of Echo created by Jon Larter, a Welsh artist...and a poem I wrote January 21, 2011:

There once was a flying feline from Barrie

Whose treadmill experience was hairy

The poor little cat

Almost went splat

And now of the treadmill, she’s wary.

Many people called her the name of a female dog (which shall not be repeated in this family blog--because of her cheery disposition, no doubt) more often than they called her Echo. However, she was perfect for me. And that's all that matters.

Times are shifting. My office has been clean for 2 months now and there is a much different echo in the house--the echo that comes from emptiness. I guess it is time to find my new normal.

Kijiji This, B*&%h

2016-01-14T16:09:00.001-05:00

If you are looking to lose all faith in humanity, the quickest and most effective way (short of visiting a slaughterhouse, dropping yourself in the throes of war, or watching Gilmore Girl reruns) is to put an ad in Kijiji.

In my personal, yet somewhat vast experience, 90% of the citizens of Kijij-land are stark raving mad, sadistic torturers who take some crazy, warped pleasure in luring you into the satisfying delusion that they will actually show up at X o'clock to view whatever it is your are trying to unload, only to leave you waiting, sitting at home, wondering why the heck you ever put that ad up in the first place.

They are brain-numbing, time-killing morons. I now have more sympathy for my single friends who have tried internet dating...too much sifting required, life is way too short. Needles in haystacks have nothing on the Kijiji process.

Last night, a particular person who obviously has a Kijiji passport contacted me multiple times to be sure I would be home for the unloading of a working dishwasher, which was listed at the extraordinarily value price of $25. I arranged my day around this schedule, to be sure to accommodate, so the big deal could go down.

I even texted my friend, Patty who lives across the street because I would be home alone at that time of the Kijiji viewing. A while back, Patty, who seems to have a sense of humour far more warped then even myself has, on occasion, caused me to "laugh out loud" during the texting process. Needing a new furnace, but not happy about the outlay of money required, I texted her to ask if she needed a kidney. I was not prepared for her answer, as she wrote, "Yes, I might actually." Pause. "I had to sell one of mine last month."

Here is the most recent Kijiji texting conversation avec Patty:

Me: I have some guys coming to take our dishwasher from Kijiji and I'm home alone. They should be here in 30 minutes. Could you keep an eye out that I am not kidnapped.

Patty: Haha. Want Rob and me to stop by?

Me: I should be OK, thanks.

Pause

Me: Just if you notice me being dragged off flailing...

Patty: OK...keep your phone with you. Our secret code will be, "Help. I'm being kidnapped."

But, alas, all this cautionary set-up was for vain, as two minutes before the scheduled roundez-vous, a woman called to tell me she had lost her bank card.

I found this excuse to be like my upper body strength--a little weak. A lot weak actually, but who's measuring? However, this by far wasn't the lamest excuse I've heard. There was the guy who missed an appointment for a swing set he was to pick up for his mother (she wanted it for her grandkids). Silly sod didn't show, I called his mother to let her know. She had seemed so excited to get the set. She must have worked her motherly charm, as the son soon called to apologize. His highly unusual excuse--he had forgotten about the time change--daylight savings and all that. You may question my qualifying "highly unusual" for who among us hasn't gone, "Oh darn. I forgot about that time change" on the Sunday afternoon or God forbid, the Monday morning of "the change". In fact, my car clock is inaccurate 6 months out of every year. The unusualness of the excuse was the time change had been three weeks earlier. You think he would have noticed the time had changed by now. Kijij Citizen. That's all I can say.

Then there are those other Kijji-ites. You know the ones: the ones that incessantly, text and email, you to hold the item for you. Then, when they don't turn up, you sell it to someone else the next day. And, wouldn't you know it, they contact you two days later, expecting you to still have it. In fact, they are angry, sometimes swear and question your morality, religious affiliation, code of ethics and call you evil, or worse, a Progressive Conservative.

Although Kijiji is a rather new world, the mentality is not. Many moons ago, during the Stone Age (Pre-Kijiji-itis), I "sold" (as in gave away) a complete bathroom suite of tub, sink and toilet. Back in day we used something called "Classified Ads," a form of written communication where people looked in paper newspapers. A family came, loaded all the gear up in their truck, strapped it in tight, and just as they were about to leave announced that they didn't have any money on them and would go to the bank and return with the $30. Before anyone could say, "Bob's your uncle" or "Susie is your sister" or "Hammy is your hamster" they took off never to be seen again. The joke really was on them, though. If you ever go into a house with the ugliest hue of purple-puke toilet, sink and tub in a bathroom, call me, I'll show up to collect.

If you list an original, long-lost Picasso for $5, I can almost guarantee the person showing up at your door will ask if you would take $2.50 for it. However, if you put your five-year-old $70 Bosu Ball for $50, a woman in an Escalade will show up and not even blink as she hands over her crisp $50 bill (I know this to be fact because it happened to me. For real, peeps).

So, if you want to venture into Kijiji-land unarmed, I will impart to you the results of my extensive research. Here is a summary of my findings I like to call The Six Laws of Kijiji--the economic and social findings using the knowledge I gained in my University statistics class (the class I almost failed. Luckily the Prof graded on the curve. I don't know what that means, however, because as I said, I almost failed the class. But, it must be a good thing, because I got the credit.). So, here are my Kijiji Laws. If Newton can have laws, so can Heather...

The lower the price of an item, the greater the likelihood the buyer will ask for a discount.
The higher the frequency the potential buyer emails, texts or calls you is a clear social indicator that they are less likely to actually show up.
There is an inverse relationship between the distance travelled to view the item and chances of the potential buyer actually purchasing the item.
The more pictures, measurements, letters of authenticity, patina hue, etc, the potential buyers ask for, the lower the chances they will purchase.
If something doesn't actually work, purchasers will pay more.
If a person does not show up and you sell the item to someone else, even if it is days later, the original buyer who didn't show up will be mad at you.

There you have it! If you do decide to navigate the waters of Kijiji-land, you have been forewarned. As for me, I probably won't be spotted frequently in that country. Instead, I may be seen in Good Will Land or Salvation Armyville or even, on occasion at the hamlet of Re-Store.

How Many Marathon-Running Women Does it Take to Hang a Clock?

2016-01-13T11:53:00.000-05:00

Three. I know because I was involved in such a task last night. It must also be noted that one of the women must be of Herculean cross-fit strength, able to flip tires and dead lift copious amount of weight (ahem* Karen). This is especially true if said clock comes from Urban Barn, is ginormous and weighs a gazillion pounds. Which, for the record, it did. Oh, there also needs to be an electric drill, a Home Depot card and enough knowledge (or charm to ask for assistance) to know what type of plugs to buy. And, finally, a young male doberman is required. He doesn't help in any way. He is there just for show and moral support.

I feel like there has been an incredible amount of changes in the last six months. I, and many around me, are in the midst of transitioning from one season to another in their lives. Some of my long-standing business relations have decided to pitch for another team, totally re-vamping my working career, and my body is not allowing me to run any more due to ligament injuries. My niece just had a new baby and my dear friend, Lyndsay, just celebrated her beautiful wedding! The only thing constant in life is change.

The clock was symbolic of a new season another friend was entering. The near-empty living room and missing furniture were paint strokes, colouring a new era that was about to begin. New memories, hopes and life needed to be created to fill the now empty space. Existing deep sadness coexisting with the hope and promise of future happiness; all in the same bundle of mixed and confused emotion.

The biggest challenge with the clock (besides trying to lift it; I have the upper body strength of gnat. Running does not require great amounts of arm strength) was figuring out how to get the drill bits in and out of the drill itself. It took every ounce I of restraint I possessed not to rip the drill from Karen's hands and press each and every fancy button in attempt to figure out how it worked. However, Karen had a different plan. She read the manual. Other than the one page IKEA picture-instructions, I don't think I've ever actually read a manual. It is quite an efficient way to figure something out. Who knew? Maybe that is why she works in management and IT and I, well, I simply don't.

Lyndsay kept a respectable and neutral distance between herself and the high-powered drilling device, careful not to interfere with Karen reading the instructions and me hovering, occasionally grabbing the drill rudely right from her hands to randomly press some buttons.

In the end, logic prevailed and Karen was up and running, power tool locked and loaded. From there on, it was very simple--if you don't count the requirement of Grade 10 geometry, a calculator, measuring, remeasuring, drilling, holding the clock up, gently getting it on the hooks. I am glad to announce the no dobermans were harmed in the hanging of the clock.

It looked fantastic! We all took turns pretending to walk in the front door and seeing the fantistical clock for the first time, “ahhing” and “cooing” in deep admiration. I sincerely hope that wasn't a large “thud” in the middle of the night...I wasn't going to wait around to find out.

Although anything but a celebration, there may or may not have been vegan pizza, kale chips, and some people may or may not have partaken in martinis of the chocolate persuasion, however, somehow, and I am not sure how, three women and a doberman ended up dancing around an empty living room.

I have to be honest, I don't like every change of season in my life. However, it did occur to me last night that I have little control over most of these changes and whether I embrace or resist them, the big, heavy clock of time keeps ticking. Sometimes the only--and best--thing we can truly do is to stop labelling the changes “good” or “bad”, eat vegan pizza, and simply dance into the new season of our lives.

****

Since originally penning this post over a year ago, David Bowie has passed. I guess he had the same sentiment. Let's Dance.

Go Ahead, Be a Fire-Breathing Dragon

2015-06-22T17:45:00.000-04:00

I just came back from my grandson's kindergarten graduation (which was probably the cutest thing I've even witnessed in my 48 years). The halls leading tot he gym were decorated with self-portraits all baring the common phrase “When I grow up I want to be...”

There were carefully-crafted creations of veterinarians, doctors, teachers and the odd pie-in-the-sky, field-afar NHL hockey players. But no, not my grandson. No, when Logan grows up, he want to be...(wait for it)...a fire-breathing dragon. There it was, blazed on the wall in full-crayoned glory.

Of course. Why let a little thing like reality get in the way of a dream? I mean, imagine if Marconi, Edison, Tessler, Banting, or the Wright brothers had bothered with reality? If you told someone 200 years ago that we would have an International Space Station floating around the earth, they would think you were psychotic and totally off your "rocket."

A couple of weeks ago I ventured—more like slunk—into my doctor's office. Apparently I hadn't been there for a little while. We can't be sure exactly what “a little while” is in Heather-years as the office switched to an electronic system quite a while back, and apparently my name reveals a blank slate. Nostradamus was probably predicting the end of my doctor appointments, not the end of the world, because it was certainly pre-2012. In reality, probably closer to 2010.

My mission, if I chose to accept it, was to walk out of that office with a requisition for an MRI on my right knee. End of. That's all I wanted from this visit. Total. Easy. Simple. Singular.

Maybe due my poor medical-office attendance, fear that I may never show up again for another five to ten years, or the fact that when asked about my parents I may have casually mentioned some sort of crazy autoimmune arthritic attack and the words “breast cancer,” I suddenly had requisitions flying at me from every corner of the room. I was getting everything from mammograms to bone density tests to blood work for lupus. My head was literally spinning.

“I see you aren't up to date on your whopping cough, tetanus, and....”

I didn't catch the third horrific disease.

He continued, “How do you feel about vaccinations?”

I think the question made him nervous. He didn't give me pause to answer. I think he was envisioning me as a staunch Jenny McCarthy follower. I may have mentioned plant-based diet earlier in the appointment. I mean, I looked the part of one of those. So, before I could pontificate on my philosophical and social outlook with regards to the topic of vaccination, the nurse was locked, loaded and administering me the needle. There is no doubt she certainly would be the last one standing in the Wild West.

Then came the real moment of panic. He mentioned the S-word. That was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, so to speak. “When was the last time you had a smear?”

I don't know if it was because I was holding my freshly-jabbed arm so tightly or if the look of overwhelming fright on my face was, well, frightening or if my attempt to joke, “I've booked my 10-year physical for November. Can it wait until then?” tugged at his sense of decency, he took pity on me and stopped the madness. The S-word would be saved for another day. Flippantly, on the way out I asked if I could get my vitamin D levels checked. It was added to the blood work. I had been reading a lot about ideal levels for optimal health and was curious where I was on the spectrum. I was outside running a little bit with my daughter and occasionally supplementing, so being deficient in the sunshine vitamin was completely outside the realm of reality.

He also ordered the MRI for my right knee. In fact, I didn't even have to hint at it. It was his idea. Usually I go the doctor with a pre-determined outcome in my mind. But, today, he beat me to the punchline. He twisted my leg a certain way, I yelped and he may or may not have used the words “meniscus,” “knee,” and “replacement” in the same sentence. Actually, it's probably a fact that he used those three words in the same sentence. What's really in question is whether or not I heard them.

Probably not, because since our lovely get-together, I've run a race with my daughter and went on a beautiful trail run with Karen and Lyndsay last weekend. I can't remember the last time the three of us all ran together, but we need to do it more often.

It is therapeutic, rejuvenating and cleansing—even if performed without the luxury of knee cartilage. My doctor did mention that I have superior knee tendons by the way. Just saying. I do have something to brag about.

We're all dealing with “stuff”--family, work, loss. And, it is so nice to leave a piece of the pain behind on the run. With the information age, I'm finding it more and more difficult to find joy, and I don't see how in reality, the world's problems can be fixed: war, killing in the name of religion, racial inequality, shooting people in church, throwing baby chicks into a grinder, cruelly slaughtering pigs, caging calfs, cutting down rainforests for beef, destroying the planet, removing the oil from the earth, global warming, pesticides, herbicides, genetically modifying our food without our say, Bill C-51. People not seeing the irony of having a BBQ (of pork hotdogs) to raise money to save the lives of cats in a shelter? How bizarre, kill the pig to save the cat? Religion, racism, sexism—speciesm. This current reality is madness. Total madness. I'm told this is how it is. An intervention, Godly or human, seems necessary to alter this reality. I don't want to hear—no, I don't want to accept—this current reality as our future reality.

* * *

There is hope. I got a few of my medical test results back. And, so far, touch wood, the only problem is I am terribly deficient in Vitamin D.

I rest my case. Reality isn't always as it appears and it can change.

So go ahead, be a fire-breathing dragon.

Showing Up

2014-03-19T17:24:00.000-04:00

My Grandson's mind works a little differently. This is in no way a bad thing, except when it comes to eating a varied and wholesome diet. His ability to eat things is hyper-dependent upon texture, colours and packaging—well beyond just a four-year-old's discerning pallet—and his mother has his diagnosis and tax credit to prove it.

So, when my daughter was advised to get a multi-vitamin with iron in it, the two went for some mother-son shopping. Unfortunately, the only vitamins with iron are hard and my grandson is used to gummies. This was a challenge of epic proportion. So, his mom did what every good, determined parent does. She bribed him. With his long-coveted favourite car toy.

Although not there, this is what I imagine the conversation going like:

“Do you want this car?”

“Yes.” answered emphatically.

“Okay. I can get you this car but you will have to eat one of these tonight and every night. Do you understand?”

Silence.

“Do you want the car?”

“Yes.” said with increased earnestness.

“Okay, if you want Mommy to get you this car, then you will have to have one of these every night.” pointing at the vitamins.

Blank stare.

“If you want the car, you will have to have a vitamin every night. Okay?”

Long pause, “Can I think about it?”

Last week, while taking some garbage into the garage (the dimly-lit garage I might add because after considerable nagging the light bulbs were still not changed), I slipped on the second step down. Glad it wasn't caught on tape, because I doubt it was my most graceful moment. I heard the smashing of glass and felt the stretching and twisting of my right foot and hip.

Now, you should know that four adults, two children, three dogs and a cat live in my house. I made quite a noise. You would think someone or something might consider popping by to see what all the ruckus was about. And, to be fair, my daughter was at work so she remains in my good books. I did hear a voice yell in the distance but no one came running: no queries of “are you alright?” or loud Lassie-like barks from our Australian Shepard. No, nothing.

Well, not quite. My cat came running. Without any undue drama (well maybe just a little), I could have been lying there unconscious, bleeding with broken appendages and the only one to show up was my cat. A house cat. An 8 lb house cat. An 8 lb, barely audible house cat. I mean, what could she do? She couldn't bark incessantly until the neighbours came running. It isn't like she had an opposable thumb so she could call 911—like a HUMAN--maybe even one living in this house. At first blush, it appeared that the least qualified being in the entire household showed up. And, I love her for it. It's tuna all-round for the next three months. At least she could curl up on my head and purr as I fought for my life.

Apparently I am a somewhat resilient closer-to-50-than-40 year-old and had no serious damage at all. I've been interested in returning to running again and we've signed up for a half-marathon. On the last “long” run—and I use the word “long” loosely if you think 7 km is long—I struggled. I gasped for breath, ran slower than I could walk up minor inclines and took frequent breaks. I'm slow, I'm weak and struggling. I'm no longer qualified—but I showed up.

No longer asking “Can I think about it?”, I need to realize the victory, at least for a while, is going to be simply showing up. And, the funny thing is, if you keep showing up over time, you become qualified. I hope that eventually, one day, I won't feel as slow, or quite so weak, or like I'm about to have a coronary on a tiny run.

My cat, Echo, appeared to be the least qualified to help me face-down in the garage, however she packs a lot of genius in that little skull of hers. She can get you to follow her when she wants her bowl filled and I've seen her put a 50 lb dog in its place. She knows the second I put my favourite blanket on a chair and no matter where she is in the house, will come and defile it with her hair and presence. And, she can locate and kill a mouse without any front claws.

A few years ago she had a large kidney stone. For a cat who faithfully uses her little box, I thought her communication skills were exceptional when she jumped into our white bathtub to show the stark contrast of the blood in her urine against the porcelain background. She's never done it since. Quite clever.

So outer appearances are deceiving. No matter how incompetent you feel, giving it the old college try is better than not trying at all. Right now I feel I'm “just a cat”, however, maybe one day and it won't be soon (trust me) I'll feel like a Cheetah—at least in my own mind!

A Different Kind of Race

2013-12-06T15:52:00.000-05:00

It always seems impossible until its done.

- Nelson Mandela

I always thought it was impossible for me to be in the same room as Mayor Rob Ford (please note the loose and approximate use of the word Mayor). That is, until last night.

While attending a charity function to raise money for the typhoon victims in the Philippines at Toronto's notorious Virgin Mobile's Mod Club, in walked none other than Rob Ford.

Deadpan and straight-faced, the woman next to me said of the three quarters filled room, “Rob Ford is here? He'll fill out the room.”

“Rob Ford is here? I'll try not to crack up.” came another voice along the bench.

I couldn't help myself, I found myself laughing.

I turned around to see the Toronto Mayor standing but 6 feet away from me, larger than life (as the expression goes)...red-faced and surrounded by an entourage of equally space-requiring mammals.

Never in a million-and-one years could I have predicted this set of circumstances even in my wildest dreams. Quite frankly, I just don't run in his crowd.

If nothing else, this was definitely a triumphant Facebook status opportunity if I ever saw one. Thank goodness (and Karen H.) for the modern miracle of cell phones.

"I am in the same room as Rob Ford…not on purpose, mind you."

The responses came fast and furious:

“RUN!!!”

“WHAT?!??

“Where are you and what at you doing??”

“Are you dealing now??”

Wow, this was a stellar status update to elicit multiple punctuation markings at the end of every entry.

I took a picture of John next to the mayor. Expecting John to give a polite “Thank you,Your Worship” or a nod and a “Mayor Ford” or even, maybe, just maybe a casual “Thank you, Mr. Ford” I almost catapulted into hysterics when my ears rang with a broad Cockney accent, a slap on the back and a cheerful, “Thanks, Rob” with a first-name familiarity often only shared by the likes of college roommates or fishing buddies.

Then guilt overtook me. I had been objectifying this man. He was so surreal to me he was like a cartoon character in my mind. But, standing there right in front of me I realized that he and I were in the same race—the human race. He is human, albeit a drug-using, lying, often crass, poor decision-making, sufferer from the illness of addictions, maybe (as in for sure) delusional, best friend of criminals, runs with gang members, extortionists and possibly murderers--human. But human, just the same. He is someone's husband, father, brother and sadly, still someone's mayor. Maybe I was laughing at him to distance myself from what he represents--that humans, my race, our race, are capable of such behaviour. Because if he is capable of such things and I am made of the same stuff, what does that make me? My mind doesn't even want to go there. Is it possible that we could all be painted with the same brush strokes?

My cynical self thinks he was there for good PR but his brother did make a donation (not sure if he used the City of Toronto stationary) but I don't know his heart and should not stand in judgement of that act. I am sure regardless of motive the money will contribute to the good of the people of the Philippines. And, God bless him for that.

Something else happened yesterday. Nelson Mandela passed from this life. What an incredible icon who lived life within the context of the “whole picture.” He dedicated his life tackling racism, poverty and inequity. He spent 27 years of his life imprisoned. But, the greater the grief, the greater the triumph and when he was released he later became the first black President of South Africa. He served one term and did not run for office again, instead, seeing the greater good and worked fighting HIV and poverty through his Nelson Mandela Foundation. Some say, and arguably so, he is the most celebrated political figure ever.

Mandela's life is good news for me because he is also in the same race as I—the human race. There is hope. If I only affect positive change to a miniscule fraction of what he did, I would have lived my life well.

True, we are all in the same race, but how we run it is up to us. We have a choice. I remember the first time running the Ottawa Marathon and noticing people in wheel chairs, another with only one leg, large people, small people, fit people, struggling people. But they were all moving.

Forward.

With purpose.

With the finish line in mind.

Different paces, different resolve, some fast, some slow, some doing a good job, some not so much. We are all struggling in our own way.

We only have one shot during any given race...and at being human.

With communication being unlike any other era, we have witnessed unbelievable human depravity and selfishness. Likewise, we have also seen incredible sacrifice, love and compassion.

The human race has it all—the good, the bad; the in between. But, as Mr. Mandela said himself, “Man's goodness is a flame that can be hidden but never extinguished.”

He also said, “When a man has done what he considers to be his duty to his people and his country, he can rest in peace.”

You certainly can rest in peace, Mr. Mandela. Yes you can.

The human race—our greatest gift is that we get to choose how we run it.

Do Less, Be More

2013-12-01T14:12:00.001-05:00

My dad has been helping (well, I use the word "helping" loosely. It is more like single-handedly spear-heading) the entire renovation of the ailing, basement bathroom. Taking a gamble on a Sunday night, we drove to a local big box hardware store, knowing full-well it would be closed.

Our pre-conceived notion was confirmed when we saw three lonely cars in the vast asphalt acreage the size of a small South American rainforest.

“Just drive by the doors just in case.” I suggested.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I looked at the posted hours. Not only was it still open, we had a full half hour to spare.

“It's not supposed to happen this way for me,” my dad said. It's amazing how incredibly happy you can be when you set the bar low.

It was definitely the most memorable and pleasant experience I have ever had in a hardware store. The weather was abysmal so the cavernous, empty store greeted us with 10 eager employees bored out of their skulls, competing at the chance to help us find an obscure mechanism for a toilet. It was kind of like a new reality show: “Survivor Hardware,” “Lowe's Got Talent” or “Home Depot Idol.” It was all about who could find a toilet flapper the fastest.

My birthday was just over a week ago and it was one of those days when all the planets aligned and all the cosmos complied. In the minds of many, a birthday reminds them of the day they were born. Since last year, my birthday is different kind of anniversary marker. It is, and will always be, in my mind, the day my mother came home from the hospital last year. What was supposed to be a day surgery lingered longer, but she was strong and kicking on my birthday and was released. It is a good day. In fact, I consider it lucky.

Since it was my birthday, I had to renew my license. However, I was suffering from a condition known as “Plate Denial”. Although it sounds like a mental illness, it has more to do with not paying your ETR 407 bill on time. However, one could argue that driving on the ETR without a transponder doesn't speak too favourably about one's state of mind in the first place. I was concerned. The bill was the size of the GNP of a developing country and I didn't think I could catch it up in a day.

So, I phoned the ETR and was told that I didn't have to pay the whole bill as only a small portion was overdue. In fact, I could pay it at the location where I renewed my license. Of course, this was the case. It's my birthday.

When I got to Service Ontario, they renewed my license without hesitation. Not even a hint that I was a seriously wanted criminal on the run from the authorities of the ETR. I couldn't help myself. I asked.

“Oh, that's just for sticker renewal, not for your license. And, you bought the two year renewal last year and don't need to renew this year.”

Of course I did. It's my birthday.

A friend awaiting biopsy results got great news and sent me a joyous email. Of course I expected this result. It's my birthday.

Lyndsay texted me from Walmart. She just heard from the vet. Her lovely cat, Eugene's results were favourable. His liver was improving. Of course I knew this would happen. After all, it's my birthday.

It simply was one of those rare days when the flow is all in one direction—mine. I realize that most days won't be like this and sometimes it is necessary to just lower expectations and become joyous for no real reason. We all need a time to re-charge, feel accomplished and whole.

My current goal with running is to just get out there three times a week. I am not worrying about how far or how fast. It is now week three and I'm pretty much on target and it's good. Karen, still spinning from her New York City Marathon, is now trying snow shoe running and Cross-fit. Lyndsay is attempting a ropes class and yoga (however, she informed me that it was more like paying a fee to try not to pass wind for 1 1/2 hours. She was pleased to report, however, that she was able to hold it all in well until the last five minutes of silent meditation, when she had squeezed so hard that the gas was now escaping internally causing a high pitched stomach noise.)

My niece, Terri Lynn, told me that her family was “trying to do less and be more.” I think that is amazing. I know one day I will be motivated and excited about training hard for a race—and so will Karen and Lyndsay. But not today, Today, like my birthday, is a day to regenerate—just a day to rejoice, reflect and enjoy what comes my way. I want to temporarily lower my expectations, and really celebrate the small, do-able victories. I want to just accept my current level of motivation and energy and just “be”.

Yep, 'tis the season to do less, be more!

Always look for the leopard print shoes

2013-09-22T21:25:00.000-04:00

It's been a bad day. Don't get me wrong, not a devastating Armageddon, WW III or even terrible news at the doctor's office kind of bad day but a rotten day just the same. More of a stub your toe, ran out of toothpaste, forgot to get cat food, spilled tea on your new shirt, CRA wants to do a tax-audit, flat tire, speeding ticket, a virus erased all your financial records on your hard drive, Outlook locked you out of your email until you remember the name of your great grandmother's second grade teacher, your electricity is cut off because you forgot to pay the bill on time, the “check engine” light is flashing, your dog got sprayed by a skunk and the toilet overflowed and wrecked the ceiling drywall in the basement kind of day. This may be hyperbole, but sadly only slightly so. There were more ups and down in my day than a Canada Wonderland roller coaster.

Unfortunately this trend has also extended to my running. Instead of a bad day, it has been more of a bad year running-wise. Injury, a tumble on the ice, weather, distractions and flailing commitment has blown me off course. This was never more apparent than a couple of weeks ago. Tim Horton's must be right because apparently I “always have time for Tim Horton's”--especially slap dab in the middle of what was supposed to be a 16 km run.

Instead of completing the run, I bailed, trading in strides and sweat for a cozy steeped tea and bagel, sending Karen and Jan to go tell my ride to come back and pick me up at the fast food joint. Why do 16 when you can stop at 10 and drink tea?

It's funny how it sometimes seems easier to handle the large, catastrophic events in our life, yet the little, niggling irritants can throw us into a spiral of unbelievable discord. Luckily, the unexpected surprises are what can also pull us back up. It can be a just as small, and seemingly insignificant event to turn things around.

It was one such event that snapped me back into consciousness from my coma of sheer misery. While awaiting my grandson's dismissal from school, a parent waltzed by who caught my attention. I was sitting on the curb so I was at about knee level as she passed me.

Wrapped in sunglasses and full jihab, exposing only her face, this demure mother walked on. You might not have been able to see her face, but you certainly could see her soul. She wore it in her feet. From the top of her head to the bottom of her legs, she belonged to Allah, but from the ankle down she was all infidel, baby. Her leopard print, diamond-studded, 10 inch cork platform high heels rivalled anything the Bee Gees ever wore. There was more bling on her shoes than at a Eminem concert. Her bright red toe nails would make for a great poster board on the red light district of Amsterdam. I guess if that's all you are allowed to show, you might as well flaunt it. Although, technically, she was probably following the rules, I'm not sure the spirit of the law was being observed. Those feet were were so unexpected, so in contrast with the rest of her that it made me smile. I couldn't help it.

It is those unexpected, wonderful miracles that add the spice and texture to our lives. They can lift us from the worst pain and agony in a milli-second. All we need to do is notice them.

Lyndsay is running a marathon very soon in Prince Edward County and Karen and Jan are representing Team Fox at the New York City Marathon this year. (If you want to learn more, check out Karen's blog at http://karenhultslander.wordpress.com) Since I am not running far and certainly not racing this year, I want to send along a recommendation to Lyndsay, Karen and Jan—enjoy the unexpected that shows up. Find those surprising moments, the moments that can pick you up, knock you out of a daze and push you into sheer joy—find your version of the diamond-studded, leopard print, platform shoes in a jihab--and I'll be eagerly waiting to hear all about it!

In the Know

2013-05-17T18:33:00.000-04:00

As we walked into Nike Headquarters Canada, I felt like I was entering a secret society like the Illuminati, the Masons, or the group of people who can assemble Ikea furniture in less than an hour (and without curse words). Firstly, there was no sign with the name “Nike” on the building, simply a signature swoosh on one corner.

Once inside, I felt like I was a cast member in a sci-fi movie. Everything was modern, glass and chrome and secret doors everywhere. However, I was catapulted by to 21^st century when the rep showed up. I found him to be rather an anomaly in this futuristic setting. Half his head was shaved and he appeared to prefer the use of ink to clothe his body rather than the traditional--well--clothes. I found this odd considering he was trying to get companies to buy clothes. He did manage a pair of shorts and a tank top barely covering his hyper designed skin.

Apparently he was a runner. This did not fare well as I was there to learn about soccer cleats, of which he knew very little. But, it was his attitude, not his appearance, that got my hackles up, creating a prejudice that would not step aside.

He was rude, elitist and condescending. I wasn't a happy bunny, especially since I wear Nike almost exclusively. The whole experience made me think about athletic companies in general.

The thing that strikes me about many of these companies is I believe they are trying to create a little mystery, mostly by the pronunciation of their names. They like to keep the general public guessing, as very few of them are straightforward. You hear the word “Nike” said two ways consistently and I am not even able to count how many variations of “Saucony” I have heard.

Why do they do this? I believe it is to create an aura of mystery, elitism and to see if you are really in the club. If you can pronounce it right, you are truly an athlete, a member of those 'in the know'.

Well, I believe we should all be 'in the know' so I am going to crack open the code. Move over Dan Brown, I'm going to solve mysteries even Robert Langdon might find challenging. Forget anti-matter and the Pope, I've got the inside track on how to say “Puma” correctly.

So, let's do this in alphabetical order, shall we. After years of research, I am here to give you the answers you've been looking for. Let's start with the As.

Addidas. Looks simple enough. This one is a little tricky because it depends where you live. If you are in North America, you should pronounce this Add DEE Das. However, if you are European and you said it like that you would be looked at as if you had three heads. In Europe, it is said Addy DAS. Since Puma and Addidas are rival companies owned by two German brothers—a fascinating backstory—I think the second pronunciation is probably how the owner says it.

Asics. The name of the company "ASICS" is an acronym of the Latin phrase "anima sana in corpore sano" which translates to "a healthy soul in a healthy body" or "a sound mind in a sound body”. I nearly choked on my green tea latte one time--while in a store a patron asked to look at the employee's ASS-icks. I don't know how the attendant kept it together, but he did. If someone asked me if they could look at my ASS-icks, I think I'd slap them. The “A” is a long vowel sound. Trust me. It is. So, please, do yourself, me and the 18 year old part time employee at the sports store a favour and ask for EH-sicks please. Just do it. Oh, wait, that is Nike's slogan...

Nike. This is Greek, named for a god. And, judging by that rep's attitude, some of the employees think they are gods. So, in Greek, anything ending in an e is pronounced 'ee'. So, although many people say Nike, rhyming with bike, it is actually Nike, rhyming with Mikey.

Saucony. A lot of people say sah-CONEY (rhyming with pony). However, the name itself comes from the Saucony Creek in Pennsylvania. The correct pronunciation is SOCK-ah-knee. I've even heard sauce-ney which sounds more like some type of ice cream topping than sneakers.

Puma. Only two options here. One sounds slightly off-colour, kind of in the vein of Asics. Pooh-ma. Nope, not that. It is Pume (rhyming with doom) ma.

There you have it. You are now in the club. No more mystery, no more guessing. You should be good, until, of course, you decide to pick up that Sugoi shirt...

Nine

2013-04-16T11:12:00.002-04:00

Nine.

Nine is the number my grandson forgot to mention in this video:

It is the final single digit in the course of counting.

It is a perfect square, divisible by 3.

In minutes, it’s long enough to make a really good sandwich

or take a nice hot shower.

Maybe to vacuum the main floor of the house, clean the bathroom or drink a good latte,

In nine minutes you can check your emails, facebook, phone messages and twitter.

Nine.

Until yesterday, nine represented the distance in qualifying minutes between Boston and me.

Nine.

Now, nine means something different.

Nine is the number of candles on a cake that 8-year-old bombing victim, Martin Richard will never see. As he sat there innocently with his family, watching the race, he was robbed of his life, not yet nine.

Martin is described by neighbours and friends as a vivacious boy who loved to run and climb; he was a member of a little league.

I can imagine him excited, wonder-filled and enjoying the glorious hype that comes with the power of collective racing, running, enjoying, being.

He enjoyed running.

He will never see nine.

Martin, I have never met you but I honour you and cry for your family. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for every time I have ever said, “If I ran Boston, I could die happy.”

I didn’t mean it. I am sorry for my flippancy and lack of respect for life.

My mind can’t handle ‘what if’ when I think of all the times friends and family have watched me race.

If I could hug your family--I can’t begin to imagine their pain--I would. I pray that your community and the world surrounds them and gives them some type of peace.

I am so sorry this happened. You deserved better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thank God there are also numbers greater than nine.

As I watched footage of the disaster, I saw dozens of support personnel rushing in to help. I saw lists of homes, eager to house and feed stranded runners. I heard of runners, weary from their race running straight to the hospital to give blood.

I saw compassion, love, hope, help, so insurmountable it can’t be quantified by numbers. On this world stage where unspeakable evil occurred, we also witnessed people performing good in unlimited measure .

Let’s not forget to give our attention to those that saw an opportunity to help, to be of assistance, to try in the most horrible circumstance to be of some good.

They say what we feed, grows. My prayer today is that goodness expands.

Moving Therapy

2013-04-14T13:57:00.001-04:00

A while back, when Lyndsay, Karen and I walked into a running store, we saw a shirt with the phrase, “Running—cheaper than therapy” across the front.

Lyndsay, who was nursing a meniscus injury was in the midst of visiting every medical therapist known to humankind replied, “…unless you require therapy in order to run.”

I started to think about it. There is some truth in the slogan. Sadly, I am aware of the price of both activities—running and therapy—and on many levels I believe running is a form of moving therapy.

I think back to my 46^th birthday. I went for a run; the most memorable run of my life. It wasn’t a race or a particularly beautiful day. I wasn’t running with friends or in a great mood. But, I was holding onto some pent up stress. I ran. By myself. Fast. Furiously. Crying. Screaming. Out loud. I ran until it was all out, left behind and dissipating with every footstep; stress juiced from every cell, dripping away, splashig into oblivion. It felt amazing.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve been able to run properly. After the Around the Bay race I felt a twinge in my knee on my next run, rendering me useless by kilometer 4. I stopped and decided to rest a few days. The weekend long run was disastrous, leaving Karen to run ahead to get help. Synchronicity was at work that day, because she ran into Denise, one of our running partners, driving home with her family. They came and rescued me. Relieved and a bit embarrassed I hobbled into the van, allowing them to drive me to the safety of the running store.

It’s frustrating because my knee isn’t sore. I can walk without any pain and it only shows up when I’m well into a run. I decided to get professional help so I consulted Dr. Google and self-diagnosed the problem as not my knee itself but a tight IT band probably pulling up on the outside of my knee.

I should have tried to run again right away but I was scared. I was scared that I wouldn't be able to do something that I have loved for the past three years ever again. It’s a daunting thought—like a world without Kawartha Dairy’s mint chocolate ice cream or no more Starbuck’s unsweetened green tea lattes with organic soy milk. My mind just doesn’t want to go there.

But, it’s time to face my fear. Besides noticing that I am just starting to lose my fitness, my muscle tone—I am totally losing my mind. This became painfully obvious to me yesterday.

Now, generally I try not to engage in fruitless debate or differing opinions, especially in public forums such as facebook. However, occasionally I involuntarily get sucked in when something gets under my skin. I am generally A-political but sometimes extreme right wing comments can set me off and now, apparently, I can add genetically modified seed to that list of hot topics. (You had to read that twice, didn’t you?). Yep, GMO.

A seemingly innocuous comment set fire to the rages in my brain and I threw up everything I felt about GMO to someone I have never met—all over my neighbour’s facebook page, and not eloquently I might add. (Sorry Sharon). I was like an animal possessed with rabies. I couldn’t help myself. All testy and prickly, I engaged. It was so bad my daughter called me and told me she didn’t need television anymore for entertainment. All she needed to do was watch me on facebook. (I am not joking).

I can’t afford therapy and my shoes are paid for. It is time to start running again.

Four kilometers and no knee pain. The neighbour kid came by trying to sell me ‘meat’ for a fundraiser for his baseball team and I didn’t bite his head off. Things are getting better on the western front.

In a phone conversation with Karen this week, we talked about the most blissful place to be—where the spiritual and physical world collide. And, that is sometimes where running takes me—it’s moving therapy; a sacred space. I’d like to leave you with a post by Karen that is absolutely beautiful:

The other day I was asked "what are you running from?". I gave the standard runner’s answer of "it is what I am running to." I am positive they walked away rolling their eyes. On a spring run like today it was all about where I went. Not the forest I run by or the scenic street...you can't see it with the plain eye. There are only a few doorways to get there. Call it meditation, connecting with the Universe and feeling the essence behind what is. It's a secret lying inside that you somehow understand. So it doesn't matter if it is 5K or 42.2, you can still travel far off this planet. But I do think that explains why some choose to run a longer distance, it is more time in the sacred space.

Choo Choo...(train to race, race to train)

2013-03-30T12:22:00.000-04:00

I know she must be a special client when Logan, the chiropractor’s nine-year-old daughter brings over a magazine and two packets of candies.

“These are for you,” she politely says.

“What’s that dear?” the patient answers.

“It’s your favourite magazine and the ginger candies you like,” Logan persists.

I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet and the candies looked good. I wonder what I need to do to get on this preferential client list. I didn’t know chiropractic offices offered Club Class. It is obvious I am flying Economy.

It doesn’t surprise me, exactly, as Mildred (I would later learn her name), demands attention the second she enters the waiting room. I am not sure if it is her flashy, high tech New Balance running shoes or her fluorescent pink faux fur fuzzy hat so much as the confidence that sloughs off into the air with each step she takes. The incongruence between her high fashion ware and her white hair whispers to me that she is probably in her seventies.

It isn’t long until she, Mildred, starts chatting up the man next to her.

“These are ginger candies. I like ginger. I’ve used it for years.”

The man smiles politely and nodded.

“The doctor askeed me why I’m in such good shape.” She didn’t wait for the gentleman to jump into the conversation, “I told him I am fortunate.”

Ah, what a lovely thing to say, I think. It was the next part of the conversation that floors me.

“I’m ninety-four.”

After I picked my jaw off the floor I sneak another peak. Her skin could give Cindy Crawford a run for her money. Maybe Aveeno made a mistake in picking their next poster child! Move over Jennifer Anniston, here comes Mildred!

“I fold the napkins for dinner at the home.” She continues. “I get lots of compliments on them.”

The man beside her doesn’t know how to carry the conversation on.

“Well, you look fantastic,” I jump in.

“Yes. I am fortunate. I believe life is what you make it. You know? Life is what you make it.”

With that exclamation, Mildred sprints into the next available exam room.

I learn from her kind nephew that Mildred Jardine has been coming for acupuncture/chiropractic care for years. She and her husband lived about four doors down from the office. After her husband passed a few years back her younger sister moved in and the two got along splendidly until her sister was tragically hit and killed by a bus about 5 years ago. Mildred then had to move out of town to a care home. Her nephew has been taking her into the chiropractor once a month ever since.

“She used to go more often, but this is all I can handle with work and everything.” He confesses. The journey each way is at least a 45 minute drive.

I only spent a few minutes with Mildred but I know I like her. I find out she lived a healthy, active life, ate well and did things like juicing and paid attention to herbs such as ginger. She made me smile and feel good and that was exactly what I needed on the day I headed down to Hamilton to prepare for the Around the Bay race.

At the best of times this is a precarious race. History has repeatedly and consistently taught me that I run marathons at a faster pace even though marathons are 12.2 km longer than this 30 km jaunt. Maybe it is the distance that messes with my head or the crazy hills--some barely passible by mountain goats--that come in the final third of this gruelling test of mind and body.

I want to complete this race in less than 3 hours. Sounds easy enough, but this race beats me every year in one way or another. However, this time, I have a plan. I will start out slowly, conserve my energy but stay at a pace slightly faster than required. Then I can slow down for the final 10 km and still make my goal.

We’re all a little worried. And, by ‘little’, I mean ‘enormously, lose control of all bodily functions’ nervous. I had been sick, hadn’t put the required training in this horrible winter. Karen just came back from a vacation in Mexico, literally getting off the plane the night before travelling to Hamilton for the race. She had taken carb loading and taper week to a whole new level. She was convinced she would be sweating mojitos. And, Lyndsay had the worst condition of all. She had been throwing up the day before, thinking it was possible food poisoning from bad cold slaw from a restaurant. (I need to talk to her about eating anything remotely related to cabbage the week before a race).

My weakness--well, one of many weaknesses--is I have a tendency to bolt out of the gate too quickly. This especially becomes a problem when I attempt to stay with Karen. So, I make a solemn pledge to myself to stick to the plan. In the first few meters into the run, Karen looks back at me and says, in realization, “You’re not even going to try to run with me at the beginning?”

I shake my head shamefully as I hang back. I feel like I just murdered a puppy or turned my best friend into the police for rolling through a stop sign. How could I not even try?

No, stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Lyndsay kindly keeps me company. The weather is amazing and I decide to take in the views and sunshine. I am so proud of myself for making a plan and sticking to it. What is it they say?: If you fail to plan you plan to fail.

The idiot that said that didn’t bother to check the schedule for the Canadian National Railway.

At approximately 9 km I blink.

“Is this for real?” I hear myself say aloud.

Before me is a sea of probably a thousand runners all stopped as a very long train rattles across the road.

What I experience next is magical and the most memorable part of the whole race. Expecting anarchy; an angry mob throwing the vehicle off its tracks, I am amazed at what I see.

I witness people smiling, laughing, dozens scattering into ditches and nearby brush to ‘take care of business’, groups clumping together, taking pictures of their smiling faces with the train in the background, friends chatting, strangers laughing, people hugging, drinking, eating, calling loved ones on their cell phones!

A few flat cars go by, making it look like the last of the train has gone by to those of us near the back of the pack, only to see more full-sized cars show up. The collective laughs at our folly!

It could have been a moment of disappointment, anger or resentment. Instead, the group chose to use these five minutes (Karen timed it) as a gift, a thing of beauty, a moment to do something important. I smile. Mildred was right, “Life is what you make it.”

I still try to achieve my goal of 3 hours, but I can’t quite make up the time before I am knocked back by the hilly terrain. Instead, I give every kid with an outstretched hand a high five. I notice the wonderful cheering squad of Keith, Jane and Linda at km 18 and the amazing sign Linda made for us, complete with sparkly letters and a map. I take the time to look across the bay, notice the beautiful homes, and the rolling--and not so rolling--hills.

I run into Copps Coliseum four minutes after that 3 hour mark has passed. Eager not to have a repeat performance of last year (an unfortunate incident in the back seat of Karen's mom's car. Fortunately we had a bag handy) I pop two gravol pills and find my wonderful people. Karen, Lyndsay and I laugh about the train, the day, the race.

I didn’t realize it at the time because I was so transfixed on my 3 hour goal, but all three of us actually had a personal best finishing time for this race despite the train (and lack of train-ing). We are so fortunate!

Life is what we make it and an unexpected, beautiful by-product of this happens to be we are fortunate.

Thanks, Mildred. I guess after ninety four years you certainly know what you are talking about.

What a great day! A special shout out to Lyndsay for running with me, Karen for the endless rides, support and guidance, Jane, Keith (and Mitsee) for the wonderful hospitality…I think I left my pillow at your house, and to Linda for your enthusiasm and high quality signage!

The Upside of Anger

2012-11-13T16:53:00.000-05:00

Karen, Lyndsay, Jan and I ran Hamilton’s Road 2 Hope Marathon just over a week ago. Getting together for a debriefing of our running experience, we enjoyed breakfast.

It was a marathon of many firsts. Jan was the first to prove that you can actually finish a marathon in good time without much training (due to an injury, not choice). Lyndsay was the first to employ a new very high tech motivational technique that I could see future Olympians using. While in the latter half of the race her sister Jessica ran beside her with an iphone, allowing Lyndsay’s other bed-ridden very pregnant sister Krista to cheer her on via video-conferencing and push her to keep going when she wanted to quit. And, of course Karen brought in a few first of her own. She was first of us women to finish under 4 hours but in my opinion, her most impressive first was to be the first of us to throw up on course (yay Karen!). I am a little jealous, actually. I think this esteemed position should have belonged to me as when it comes to running and upchucking, I feel am somewhat of a champion. I am going to take a leaf from her book and possibly give this strategy a go next time--maybe if Iose my cookies during a race, I won’t need to during the after party!

Then, the topic of race anger emerged. And, when it comes to road rage, apparently Lyndsay is Queen. It is sometimes hard for me to take her seriously--although I know she is serious--because she is the sweetest person alive. However, when she expresses anger, it is like seeing a three year old decked out in a skull and cross-bones bandana. You know it is a skull and cross-bones bandana, but somehow it just looks cute on a sweet innocent child.

As Lyndsay recounted her various pet peeves while running, one seemed to stand out. When she is in the upper kilometers of a marathon, the smell of body odour puts her into a rage. Unfortunately, body odour after running 30 kilometers is pretty much a given. So, needless to say, I am glad I wasn’t next to her for that part of her run!

I’ve found that I’ve been experiencing more than my usual dose of anger lately. It is with great hesitation and trepidation that I share this story. Please don’t judge too harshly. People who live in glass houses and he without sin and all that…

I was having a bad day to start with. But, I was running and running fast. I was pushing the limits and putting my soul into each step during a neighbourhood run when I ran by a large, scary motley gang of juvenile hoodlums. (Okay, it was a small group of what looked to be three clean cut twelve year old school boys.) They decided it would be fun to jeer out chants and screams of “Run, run, run…oooh, look at her go. Run faster.” The words sounded innocent enough but their tone was evil. I’m going to let you in on a secret. People who run do not want you to comment. And, by the way “Run Forrest, Run” is not funny, clever, new or remotely cool. It is just annoying.

What happened next is embarrassing and possibly a new base level to my existence. I am not proud. And, when I tell you, you will be shocked. Or, at least I hope you will be shocked. I shocked myself.

The flock of boys caught me on the wrong day. I sized them up. Judging by the general rotund nature of their physique, the velocity with which I was travelling, the fact that I was about to go downhill and, upon first glance, they didn’t look to be armed I made a snap judgement call. A bad one, but a judgement call all the same. They looked like the only exercise they got was picking on smaller children or tormenting toads, I figured I could easily outrun them.

Now, I should preface this event with some background. For 15 years I was a teacher. An elementary school teacher. In fact, for the most part I taught twelve year olds. I prided myself with being calm, level headed and nurturing. And, in 1994 I was even honoured with an award called the “Award of Excellence” where I was nominated by my peers for my classroom, school and community contributions to society. Ha! If they could see me know I’m sure they’d ask for it back.

It’s a good thing that I am no longer a paying member of the Ontario College of Teachers, because I am pretty sure I would have been stripped of my membership.

With one fatal motion, I raised my hand high right after passing the boys and then I gave them a gesture. Not a nice gesture. In fact, a rather rude gesture. A gesture that would have sent me to the principal’s office had I been twelve years old instead of someone who was thirty four years their senior and should know a whole lot better. This was a new level of low.

It was the fuel that ignited the intensity and volume of their jeers. I remember hearing myself speak to myself over the blaring of my ipod, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Anger.

Then, about a week later there was the whole de-friending incident on facebook. One of my ‘friends’, an American (that alone should say it all) was quite hyped up about their election and was constantly posting rather opinionated political comments and links. I am not particular political and generally don’t get involved in debating or bashing. I do have my personal opinions but I attempt to stay respectful. To me, argument for argument’s sake is simply an ego feeding food that never satisfies. It is like high fructose corn syrup; feels good at the time, but just leaves you wanting more.

But, once again, that demon anger raised its head and I engaged against my better judgement. Unhappy with an article in The National Post my ‘friend’ commented that Canadians shouldn’t comment on U.S. politics and should stick to what they do best, hockey and maple syrup.

How wrong could that statement be? Doesn’t she know anything? We don’t do hockey well, we’re on strike.

I felt like a mouse looking at the cheese. It looks so good but you know as soon as you sink your teeth in it’s a trap. Did it any way. It went something like this:

Me: Peter Jennings was a Canadian.

Random Other American: Peter Who?

I thought he was being sarcastic. He truly can’t be this uninformed

Me: Not cool.

Random Other American: Didn’t recognize the name.

I realize now the dude is serious. He’s never heard of Peter Jennings. I see in his profile he is in the U.S. military. Oh boy.

Me: link to Peter Jennings in Wikipedia

Random Other American: Sorry, didn’t know who he was.

Me: Well, he was one of the most well-known U.S. political news anchors and he was born in Toronto…but what do I know. I’m just a Canadian commenting on U.S. politics.

My momentary high came crashing down when I realized what I wrote. Why was I engaging in this conversation? I deleted all my posts, sent a quick note to my ‘friend’ respectfully explaining that I did not wish to use facebook as a political platform, wished her love and then defriended her.

Why was I experiencing so much anger? I kept thinking about anger because I couldn’t see any upside to it. Why do we experience such an devastating emotion? Why does it exist? This past week I’ve been oozing, sweating it out with every breath. It seems to be so negative. It eats at my stomach, consumes my thoughts and makes me feel horrible.

Then, one possible answer came to me when most good things come to me, on a run. I don’t believe we are meant to live with anger. However, to everything there is a season and a purpose under the sun. And, I believe it exists for a reason and that reason is a temporary flag.

I came to the conclusion that anger is a bridge, a warning signal, a flashing yellow light, a transition emotion. I think it exists to get us to pay attention and let us know we need to deal with something. It is necessary to help us prioritize what requires attention immediately. It is the emotional equivalent to bleeding. As long as you have breath and a heart beat, the next order of first aid is to stop the bleeding. You can't live with profuse bleeding forever. It has to be curbed.

For me, anger doesn’t just dissipate all by itself. I can try to ignore it and simply replace it with happy thoughts but it bubbles up in the most inopportune times and then innocent children or facebook friends suffer…I don’t like feeling angry. In fact, I find it quite yucky (that is the psychological word for it). So, how can I get rid of this nasty, horrible emotion? Sometimes it feels as complicated as defusing a bomb…until I went for a run.

The way I see it, there are only 2 possible reactions. It may be over simplified, but I’m a simple person.

One reaction to anger is to view it as a call to arms and fight whatever you are angry with. But, this doesn’t make sense because you are just perpetuating an enemy…which in turn breeds more anger. You have to be angry to fight and fighting makes you angry.

The alternate reaction is to accept whatever you are angry with and take action by focussing on the world of possibilities. As far as I can tell this is the only way to transition from anger to someplace new.

There are all these angry campaigns to fight war, discrimination, crime, terrorism, famine, heart disease and cancer. Instead, how about a call to see war, discrimination, crime, terrorism, heart disease and cancer as it is, then envision and focus on the great possibilities of peace, inclusion, kindness, tolerance, health and abundance.

Accept what is, and put your energy toward all the best possible outcomes. Because isn’t that what life is, possibilities? As far as I can tell, at least from how I see things today, this is the only upside to anger.

Blindsided

2012-10-30T18:00:00.001-04:00

I received a call this week that took me by surprise. “Knocked me for six” as the cricket expression goes.

-----------------------------------

Our next scheduled marathon was coming up and I was blindsided in the peak of training with a horrible cold. In the previous marathon Karen was injured doing yard work during the height of conditioning. And now, I opened the email that almost brought me to tears. Lyndsay was hit with a torn meniscus. We knew her knee was hurting, but we kept rationalizing it away, coming up with every reason except the real one.

I called her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Ok.”

“What is the verdict?”

“Well, the doctor says I can run short distances and we’ll take it from there. But, there is a chance I won’t run the race.”

“Oh no.”

“But its okay. It is good to be blindsided, isn’t it?”

I am confused and glad that she can't see my face through the phone line because she would see me staring at her incredulously like she had three heads.

“Is it?” I obviously was the oldest but not the most mature in this situation.

“Yes, it helps you put things into perspective.”

Oh, that.

“I guess so.” I draw out my answer more of a question than a statement.

It doesn’t seem fair. You set your sights and state your goal, you devise a plan and stick to it. You train 6 months and something little like a cold, a slip in the yard and small tear in a ligament or a stomach bug can end the race before it begins.

Sidelined.

The past year has been full of sidelines. Karen lost her beloved cat, Harley and we lost our dog, Hank, exactly one month later. My roommate from university is helping her husband live with an unexpected aggressive cancer and my son’s girlfriend has lost her job. In my small circle of friends and neighbours, people are dealing with family breakups, loss of jobs, deaths, suicides and sickness. And, that is only the things I know about. Who knows what silent, intimate struggles people are battling in their hearts?

One man I know, Brad and his family got some crazy news a few weeks back I am sure no one saw coming. I’ve known Brad from the moment he was born. He was a couple years my junior and his grandparents and my parents were best friends. And, although I would never classify Brad as a buddy, he was more than an acquaintance. It was one of those weird relationships that couldn’t really be pegged. We never really played together as kids, we never hung out as teenagers yet he was ‘there’. New Years, family parties, get-togethers; he was a present, like a friendly wallpaper. As our lives continued I would hear about what he was up to via his Grandmother who kept me abreast of the major landmarks in his life. I’ve never kept in touch and have seen him maybe twice since we were adults but still consider him not quite family, not exactly a friend but more than an acquaintance—a really unique grey area. Currently he lives in Southern California.

I got an email from his mother…what started out as unexplained bruising ended up being acute myelogous leukemia. Surprise!

Recovery is a real and wonderful possibility, however, I am sure it will be a long road. Couldn’t help but be touched by one of his facebook posts:

So, here I am in the hospital with a blood-based disease (AML type M3, you can google it). From what I can tell, I’m using way more than my fair share of Platelets, one of the blood components that contributes to clotting. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to donate blood due to the disease that I have, but I’d encourage any of you, my friends and family, to strongly consider making a small trip to a donation center and giving a pint of blood.

Don’t do it because it might save my life or someone else that you know and love, do it because it might save some random stranger’s life and they’ll be grateful for the opportunity that you have given them even if your paths never cross.

Anyway, I hope this didn’t fall under the “too long didn’t read” category for too many of you, and I hope that you all are having a wonderful day today. Here in Southern California beyond the walls of my room the weather looks to be wonderful.

Enjoy the day!

I’ve done some good things in my life. Given to charities, donated time, bought Girl Guide cookies. However, I am sad to admit I have NEVER donated blood in my entire 46 years. I am a little, shall we say, squeamish about needles or anything medical for that matter. But, if I can run 42.2 km surely donating blood can’t be that bad. This is on top of my to-do list after recovering from the marathon.

Brad’s post made me think. What if we’ve got it all wrong? We think that life is setting goals, then working towards them. Plotting a course then keeping your heading. But, what if the essence of life is the obstacles and our goals are simply avenues to getting blindsided? Maybe the real accomplishments are listening to a neighbour who needs to talk, making that platter of food for a funeral, taking someone out for coffee, helping someone look for a new job, sending an encouraging text….giving blood! Maybe running marathons, getting that promotion, obtaining that certification are simply the true examples of us getting blindsided from our real purpose. If that is the case, then Lyndsay was right. Being blindsided is good.

The Real Deal

2012-10-14T16:58:00.001-04:00

The trouble these days is things aren’t always as they appear. The hamburger in the commercial never looks that big in real life, the car price doesn’t really start at $14,000 and that free magazine comes with a subscription you pay for if you forget to cancel!

Recently, my cat Echo, after 10 glorious years of being an indoor cat, content and cozy living within the safety provided by the four walls of our home, has decided this beacon of security is now a prison of maximum security. Every time the sliding door to the back deck opens she darts with the ferocity of an inmate escaping from Alcatraz. Once out on the deck she hides behind the patio set, staring at me, taunting me with her big alien eyes when I attempt in vain to coax her back in.

This is where Temptations come in. Temptations are a cat treat featured on a popular commercial where, when the bag is shaken a cat jumps over a fence, through a yard, over floatation devices in a swimming pool, back to the owner. The commercial is the Real Deal. Seriously. Echo can be on a mission to be the next best escape artist since Houdini and I can shake a bag of Temptations and she will come bounding in before I can blink. I don’t know what they put in that stuff, probably some type of highly addictive narcotic, but it certainly works. I may unwittingly be Echo’s feline drug pusher and not even know it.

For me, another Real Deal is the long run. My favourite training run is the speed workout, I tolerate hills and don’t mind tempo, however, the most sacred run of all is the weekend long run. I love it in the summer and fall when you can trade the confines of city streets, the relative safety of residential neighbourhoods and the monotonous repetitive routes for stunning rural scenery beyond the circumference of the city limits.

If the sun shines and the fields glimmer, my mind zones in and something very miraculous happens, usually about 20km into the run. For some reason it becomes a spiritual experience. Unless you have experienced it, I don’t think you can truly grasp it. I feel like I am floating. The movement of my body stills my mind. I become purely in the moment; everything else disappears except the beauty around me. All the cares and worries of my life evaporate. I feel as though I am gliding, smooth and fluid with the beating of my heart.

I said that’s how I feel, not how I look. I am experiencing all this bliss on the inside only. For someone watching, it would look like a stuggling, middle-aged woman shuffling along, slumped over enough to make the Hunchback of Notre Dame look like the exemplary poster child for the Canadian Chiropractic Association. I am gasping air like I have advanced emphysema and am moving barely faster than most people walk. However, none of that matters to me because I am not looking in. I am looking outward.

It occurred to me that this is true well beyond the scope of running. When we stop looking inward and instead look outward at all the amazing beauty and goodness that surrounds us, quieting our minds and moving to the rhythm of the earth, we become real; the Real Deal.

I am, I said

2012-07-15T13:08:00.003-04:00

A few months back I was chatting with the new owner of a massage therapy chain. I had just finished my treatment and I was mentioning my purpose for massage.

“Oh, so you jog.” He mistakenly remarked.

“Pardon?”

“You jog?”

“Pardon me?” There was nothing wrong with my hearing but I refused to listen to this nonsense. He obviously wasn’t picking up on the social cue I was desperately trying to relay.

“You like to jog?” he tried one more time.

I decided to put him out of my misery.

“I am a runner.” It was a declarative statement, like the sky is blue or gravity keeps us attached to the earth. Not that there is anything other than syntax separating the word ‘jog’ from the word ‘run’, it just feels like one comes across as a hobby, something you might do casually for fun. The other, something you are.

So when did I move from someone who jogs to someone who is a runner? It isn’t something I do; it is something I am. But, isn’t that what all spiritual growth is about? Moving from simply a state of doing to the bliss of being?

Prompted by a very funny story told to me by one of my running friends (all names and circumstances have been changed to protect the innocent—I only make fun of people I don’t know…), I have given contemplation to the signs and symptoms that show that you have made the stride (pun intended) from jogging to becoming a runner.

You know you are a runner when:

You have thrown up at least once before, during or after a run.
You plan all holidays, dates, medical appointments, and kids’ birthday parties around the training schedule.
You happily set your alarm clock for 5:30 am on a Sunday morning so you can run double-digit kilometers before it gets too hot.
You have had a blister on a blister on your foot
You have lost at least one toenail.
You own a watch that easily uses GPS technology to tell you how fast you are going, but don’t know how to get it to tell you the time of day.
You own more running shoes than all other types of shoes combined.
You have more specialized gear than an astronaut.
When you hear the words ‘body glide’ the first thing that comes to mind is a petroleum based product to prevent chafing.
You have used your kitchen rolling pin to roll out your calves at least once.
You know what IT (and its not information technology) stands for and can locate it on your body.
While the general public is warned about the over consumption of salt, you actually take pills of it on your runs.
You have had to deal at least once with dogs/horses/wild animals of some type.
You speak of food as fuel and specific foods never by their real names. Words like bread, pasta and potatoes are always referred to as carbs.
You know who Paula Radcliffe and Scott Jurek are.
You check the charge on your Garmin and ipod daily.
You have read “Born to Run” more than once.

And the final one…based on a true story

You have veered off the road into the woods—field—ditch—fill in the blank—and emerged with only one sock—a sacrifice well worth it.

And that, my friend, truly shows that you have arrived.

Revenge of the Muffin

2012-06-01T18:08:00.001-04:00

Ottawa Marathon Weekend is upon us and here is the plan: drive to cottage on Friday night, drive to Ottawa on Saturday and run a marathon on Sunday. Sounds simple with the most difficult part, of course, being running the marathon.

A small hiccup is my son and a couple other sundry people are moving into our basement in our absence. Having cave dwellers move in isn’t in itself a problem, but cleaning out the cave is. It seems that I have enough stuff hidden down there to warrant me a guest appearance on “Hoarders”.

Some furniture needs to be re-located. My friend Karen who experienced back issues two weeks before the marathon while doing yard work hands out some strong warnings of caution. I move the furniture any way against my better judgment—and Karen’s. It all has to be done before I leave.

Kanoock needs a dog sitter, the cat needs someone to feed her, keys need to be cut for the new tenants. So much to do, so little time.

Somehow everything gets done, I am packed and we leave for the cottage late at night. Now, in long runs Lyndsay invariable has a story about some type of wildlife encounter.

“Hey, did anyone see the raccoon, baby ducks, wild turkey….fill in the blank?”

Of course no one else ever does so her sightings are completely unverifiable, although I am pretty sure the wildlife is real and not a delusion caused by long run exhaustion. She is like some type of ‘Wildlife Whisperer’ Shaman-like creature, beckoning the animal kingdom to appear to her during runs. She has a particular fascination with moose. She didn’t see her first moose in the wild until last year, which in itself is a complete mystery as she is from North Bay.

I am currently jolted upright in the seat as the brakes slams on. I see something waddle off the road, “What is that?”

“Raccoon.”

“Good eye. Glad we didn’t hit it.”

Ten minutes pass. Once again I am bolt upright staring out the window.

Bambi.

A tiny little deer is in the middle of the road, looking the other way. We wait patiently until he slowly makes his way to the other side.

This is all too Lyndsay-like. I text her in my limited way.

Me: We almost hit a raccoon and deer.

Response: Oh, be careful. Watch out for moose.

Me: Okay, will do.

Another ten minutes.

“What was that?” I almost scream. Something little scurries under our wheels.

“A mouse.”

The silly rodent commits suicide under my car. I feel bad and experience the need to tell Lyndsay about this situation. After all, she is the Animal Whisperer. Maybe her special powers have magically transferred to me.

Now, I am not a texting expert (see previous post). Some people are developmentally delayed, technologically delayed or emotionally delayed. I am ‘texting delayed’. In my defense I would like to point out that there is only one letter difference between the word ‘mouse’ and ‘moose’. Luckily I sent a second correctional text before 911 was deployed…

Twenty minutes of peace. Phew.

Then a fox runs right in front of us. Luckily for us—and certainly lucky for him--we swerve and miss.

The porcupine that followed, however, was not so lucky.

It was previously run over when our car bangs and clanks to finish the job. Being behind another car, we are upon it before we have an opportunity to miss it.

I feel my muscles tense and my neck seize up. A headache creeps over me.

I am so happy to arrive at the cottage in one piece.

In the morning my Dad offers me his famous muffins, homemade and healthy. Now, the general rule of thought is to avoid anything with significant fiber the day before a marathon. So I query said muffin before digging in.

“Is this high fiber?”

“No, not really.” The statement is somewhat vague and a little bit sketchy. For some reason it reminds me of the phrase, “I am not a crook…”

I proceed with my line of questioning, “What’s in them?”

“Dates, nuts, whole wheat flour, orange.”

I am not sure what my father’s definition of fiber is but that certainly sounds like two bottles of Metamucil topped off with a helping of oat bran and a bucket of prunes. So I exercise the utmost of prudence….and only eat one…at a time.

The muffins are pretty good. Time to head out, my dad hands me 2 more muffins in a bag. Here are some for the road.

“Thanks.”

We leave just before noon and the drive to Ottawa seems to drag on and on. I am fighting a head ache and am getting hungrier and hungrier. The muffins are speaking to me. I resist for a little while but finally I cave and eat muffin #2.

Once in Ottawa we need to locate Lyndsay who is staying at a friend’s apartment to pick up my race kit.

Texting

Me: We’ll be there in 5

Lyndsay: Great

Me: Make that 30 minutes.

From Lyndsay’s I head to the hotel. I run in.

“What’s your name?” the desk clerk asks.

No reservation. No trace, no nothing. I take on the posture of a deranged women. Actually, I am a deranged woman at that moment.

“Here, why don’t you try online to look up your reservation?” The calm attendant leads me to a public computer.

Nervously I search my email for my reservation. Aha! I find it.

Here it is.

My email lists the correct nights, but the confirmation code listed 2 entirely different nights. I am not prepared to travel back to the cottage tonight. Enough wildlife has been sacrificed for this run.

“No problem. We have extra rooms.”

I love you, I think to myself.

I am now pretty tired, fairly stressed and hungry. That third muffin stares at me. I can’t take it any more. I demolish it.

We spend the night at the market getting a bite to eat and relaxing. I have a splitting headache. I take advil, wake up in the night and take some more.

“I don’t think I will be able to run tomorrow if this doesn’t lessen,” I say to myself at about 4 in the morning.

But I will the ache away and am up and ready by 6 am.

I head out towards Karen’s hotel.

Karen’s husband Jan looks at me, “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my waffle.”

Athletes, even amateur just for fun ones, have routines and rituals that they feel help them perform better. And, mine is I eat this type of cookie/waffle about 15 minutes before a race or long run. I have left it in the hotel room. And, Jan says the kindest thing anyone could possibly say to me at that moment, “Don’t worry. You don’t need it. It would only make you feel sick anyway.”

Those are the best and smartest words ever. I relax.

The race starts and it is wonderful. The crowds are amazing, the weather perfect and the scenery breath-taking. Running is the easy part. There is no real stress – no traffic, no wildlife, no parking, no hotel reservations, no hunger. Just pure running. Simple, focused and fun. Poetry in motion.

I feel amazing for the most part, until km 28. This is the moment the muffins take flight. Up until today I have never visited a porta potty during a race, but today is to be a first. I cut someone off as I dart into the rectangular plastic blue cubicle. Maybe 3 muffins was a bit excessive. Two minutes is a small price to pay to avoid a life time of embarrassment.

Things improve until km 35 when my stomach acts up. I have a gravol for post race as I sometimes (always) have stomach issues after long runs. I make an executive decision and take the medication early.

Now, if I am ever approached to be the gravol poster girl I would do an excellent job of promoting their product. However, there is one side effect I do suffer with—sleepiness. Sleepiness is probably not the most desirable quality to possess at km 36 in a 42.2 km run. But despite my ever declining pace, I manage to make it over the finish line without curling up in a ball on the side of the road to take a nap.

The race weekend is amazing and the exact opposite of what I expect but exactly as it should be. Ironically, the easiest part of the entire weekend was running the marathon!

The Need for Speed?

2012-05-20T11:40:00.000-04:00

Without measurements, it’s hard to notice improvements. However, upon completing a long group training run before the first half marathon of the 2012 season I ran hard and realized I was the first female in the group to complete the 21 route. A stranger came up to me and said something that made my knees feel weak and my face turn 3 shades of red. He said those three words that every woman who runs dreams of hearing, “You are fast.”

This year, my running goal was to get a little faster. It’s strange that we have this insatiable ‘need for speed’.

Hank, one of our border collie/Australian shepherd crosses also had this crazy need for speed. Everything he did, he did with all his might. At the mere sight of his lead he went into a frantic jumping/whining frenzy, earning him the nick name ‘Jerry Springer’. Walking him required the upper body strength of Mr. Universe.

Hank was the first in the car. He was also the first out of the car. The first out the door and always the first in. He loved everyone, jumped on everything, licked anything, ate his dinner in lightning speed and had three favourite words as well: din-dins, walkies and cottage. He was truly joy in a fur casing.

Hank’s flamboyant personality wasn’t without its challenges. He barked too much, played too rough with baby rabbits (RIP), doves (why he left only the head I don’t know), porcupines (twice, which may say something about his IQ), and the skunk (luckily I was on vacation when that one occurred, leaving the rest of the family to deal with it). I wanted to put a sign on the gate to the backyard saying, “Warning Wildlife, Enter at Own Risk, Hank Lives Here”.

All the neighbours knew Hank for various, and not always pleasant reasons, but none so much as the family behind us who own the chocolate lab, Tucker. Hank learned how to jump the back 5 foot chain link fence. Actually, it was less jumping and more climbing. So, at his discretion, he would randomly jump the fence to play with his friend Tucker.

I was always yelling at him, “Hank, get back here.” Sometimes I would have to go get him. Then, he found another set of dogs in the next house and would jump our fence, then Tucker’s fence and thus began his life of crime.

I started to notice that he would jump the fence when Tucker wasn’t out as well. Raw hides, bones and toys became to spontaneous sprout in our back yard. Mr. Robber was waiting for when Tucker was inside to go pillage. This had to stop.

And, thus, the 6 foot wooden fence was built. Upon its completing, Hank looked at it long and hard. He backed up all the way to our house, then turned and ran at it with all his might. It was like watching a cartoon—or a car crash. You could see what was coming next but it was too late to do anything about it. He hit the fence about half way up with a splat and, plastered against the fence, slid down like Wiley Coyote in the Roadrunner. Unlike the porcupine incidents, he never tried again.

Hank’s need for speed was actually a natural outgrowth for his pursuit for joy. Joy overflowing personified, or caninified if you will.

****

We scattered some of Hank’s ashes at the cottage this week. It’s so quiet now. Kanoock, Hank’s brother, the one left behind, is more cultured and well behaved. There is no one to chastise or chase after.

What a lesson Hank was. Joy first. Everything else second. Do what you love with all your enthusiasm and might. Be in the moment. That was Hank.

It’s one week to the Ottawa Marathon. This will be the anniversary of my first marathon ever. Initially in the season I had a time goal but life has dealt my training partners and I various obstacles. Denise just had a new baby girl! Karen said good bye to her cat and recently hurt her back doing yard work. Last week Lyndsay’s ankle mysteriously swelled up. We lost Hank and it is supposed to be really hot next weekend—less than ideal conditions for obtaining a personal best time. Personal issues, loss, injury, and weather—all things we have little control over. Joy, however, is a decision.

Whatever this weekend holds, I choose joy.

Thanks Hank!

Hank Fraser

2001 - 2012

Joy in a Fur Casing