Marathon Musings

Kurt says because I only post when I'm sad now, it sounds like I'm always sad. :) I mean, that's not wrong, really.  But it's also not entirely right.  I feel so many things and sadness- unfortunately- plays a soft bass accompaniment to all of them.  Sure, it can mute the quiet tones, but it also accentuates the loud ones.  Funny how that is. Since I often speak more in the abstract than the concrete, let me try to use a (probably overused) comparison to explain. 

The local news did a story with us in it.  See it here. 

On Monday (9/7), I finished running my second Boston marathon (for charity). I raised money for the MGH pediatric cancer center where Madi was treated. I am not a natural athlete. I do not run because I'm particularly good at it; I run because it is hard for me.  I run because the physicality of the difficulty mirrors what is happening to me emotionally.  There are times when every step hurts and all I can do is moan and ask (sometimes loudly), "Will this ever end?"  

Because I feel that so frequently emotionally, it gives me great satisfaction to feel it physically.  Why? Because when I feel it physically, it is so real and tangible and visible.  And every time I'm in physical discomfort - because it has happened so much - I can see that it is short and it will only be for a few minutes.  Afterward, I may not be able to feel my strength immediately, but I will.  The next time the discomfort rests on me and I feel like I want to die, I will feel my muscles and their increased capacity.  

Sometimes sadness feels oppressively hard because we can't feel it the way we feel sore muscles.  The stabbing pains in our hearts, the swift force of memories in our minds, the tightness in our chests or stomachs... they all feel so real, but there's no way to measure them, to track them, to follow the curve of their progression.  

But when I run, all I have to do is keep moving.  It may not be pretty, but I just have to keep moving. They say that sometimes the ugly runs are the ones that help us the most because that's where the growth happens.  We stay consistent when we really just want to give up.  I measure my emotional progress in the increase in satisfaction I feel in all good feelings.  

When I see a gorgeous sunset, I now want to sip it in, a millisecond at a time and braid it into me, along with the feeling of the wind and the sound of the crickets. I feel the rise and the fall of Anna's chest when I hug her, a twinge of joy with every breath she effortlessly takes.   I love watching my tween and teen trip all over themselves because their bodies are awkwardly figuring out what they are eventually going to be.  They are growing! YES! And William's screechy protests because he is so tired from waiting for me to lay with him too late at night.  I even soak those in along with his soft relaxing cuddle into me, so relieved that I am next to him.  These moments jump out now when they hid behind the mascarade of busyness before.  I am so intensely happy moment to moment, even when I'm also very, very sad.  

This is the closest way I can think to describe how I felt as I crossed the finish line on Monday surrounded by my friends and family.  I hurt.  Every part of me hurt.  But I cannot imagine how I could have felt more fulfilled and happy.  I could hardly stop the tears from coming.  Without all the grief and the madness of pandemics and racial struggles and murder hornets and wildfires and floods and the discomfort of uncertainty... without all of that, the amplitude of our capacity to feel joy and love and appreciation would be lower.  Without the tears of pain I shed at mile 18, I would not have truly appreciated the tears of joy I shed at mile 26.2.  

I feel like all my posts come back to this point:  the necessity of opposition. The yin and the yang, the good and the evil, the sun and the moon.  One cannot exist without the other.  Joy and pain have to co-exist.  We cannot remove one without destroying all of it.  

So I am cradling it all inside me and recognizing it.  Maybe 2020's woes are not God cursing us. Maybe the pain and sadness that all these afflictions have left in their wake are not sending the message that there is no God. Maybe God is hoping they will clarify our perspective.  Maybe hardships and adversity are tools that will help increase our ability to feel peace and joy.  Maybe we are growing stronger by living through the difficulties. I do know I never fully appreciated how good it felt to walk until I had run so many miles. Relief always comes. Hope is hidden- and discovered -in the pain.