I try not to berate myself for my anxieties too often. Anxiety is a curious beast and the stressors that creep into my life on occasion are best dealt with in a loving way (because being anxious about being anxious is one of the most maddening exercises on the planet). And Love being what it is, the author of it (God) routinely reminds me of how big He is in comparison to my occasional bouts of I-have-too-many-student-loans-I-really-need-a-bigger-apartment-I-hate-paying-my-law-license-fees-when-I-don't-even-practice-money-is-stupid-I-wish-I-were-skinnier-how-the-hell-did-I-burn-the-eggs-twice-work-makes-me-feel-like-a-moron-sometimes anxieties.
Anap is one of the students I'm often paired with when I tutor on Monday evenings. She's perhaps a decade my senior and she's slowly, painstakingly learning English. Tonight we were working on a rewrite of a paragraph for a course she's taking, a paragraph she titled, "Why I Want to be a Doctor." Each sentence is a struggle. Her vocabulary stretches with each week, but crafting a fluid, cogent paragraph does not come naturally. And the substance of the paragraph, her desire to go to medical school, just makes the writing and rewriting of simple phrases that much more heartbreaking. The rewrite was instigated in part due to her teacher's red ink comments of, "do you understand how much schooling you will need to be a doctor? Do you enjoy science and math? Is this a realistic goal?"
I can't blame her teacher for having these thoughts, I have them myself. How can she go to medical school when I'm having to reteach adverbs each week? But the uber-American upbringing in me screams, "put your mind to it and you can do anything, Anap!" The hurdles facing such a dream are mind-boggling, and at present I'm only thinking of the educational hurdles. The financial would make medical school seem somewhere just shy of miraculous.
After we'd worked for an hour, I offered to drive Anap home, which is a common occurrence. This time, however, she asked to be dropped at the hospital, where her aunt is currently recovering from lung surgery. And "recovering" may be painting too rosy a picture. Anap has lost her mother and brother within the last year. And this aunt came to her side in her mourning. Anap now keeps vigil beside her, two women far from their birthplace, ensconced in a culture that must fascinate and terrify them in equal part. As she stepped out of the car I told Anap I would pray for her aunt and she smiled, thanked me, and said, "God bless you," before waving goodbye and walking briskly through the emergency room doors. Anap always has the most beautiful head scarves, and the red and pink of tonight's variety matched the glow of the lettering above the hospital door.
On the wide spectrum between Surviving and Flourishing, wrapped up as I am in my own minor earthquakes and struggles, I so often forget that there are those around me whose lives lean heavily towards Survival in comparison to my inch-by-inch pursuit of a Flourish. I lament budgeting for trips to DC, wishing I could spend money profligately on fancy drinks and new purses, when Anap is struggling to make sense of American History coursework and the often curt explanations from her aunt's doctor. I am in the process of paying for the dream I was privileged enough to pursue, and Anap will be lucky to pass a class where she's learning to write sentences about a dream that will, in all likelihood, never come to fruition. How am I owed any level of comfort beyond what Anap is given? I am a firm believer that God does not love me any more than Anap, or desire Anap's happiness any less than my own. We are equally loved by our Creator, and yet my struggles look like blessings beside her day-to-day life.
Comparison is a tricky thing. And no one but the Almighty can explain why I was born in this country, to these parents, in those school districts, and why Anap is struggling in her late 30s to learn a new language, and losing family members left and right in a country that isn't even Home. But when Anap said, "God bless you," in the car, I simply wanted to scream my prayer.
No, not at all. I am already overly blessed. Blessed beyond my ability to recognize said gifts. God bless you, Anap. God bless you.
Monday, October 08, 2012
Sunday, October 07, 2012
Epiphany #2: Superior Hiking Trail "Race"
Epiphany #2 was a bit more personal. Another gift, and also a recognition of what the rest of my life is lacking.
I've never been one to love my body. I would say that the vast majority of my life, from age 10 or so, has been spent putting up with (that's putting it kindly) the body God decided should be mine. The bulk of this ill will was wrapped up in the same errors in perspective that other women struggle with in that I always wanted to be smaller. Always thinner. I prayed for the willpower to starve myself properly, which must be such a saddening prayer for God to hear from one of his children. Much akin to a drinker praying to be a better alcoholic.
This relationship worsened throughout my teens and 20s and then started to improve, ever so slightly, in my late 20s. I would say now I coexist with this flesh in a sort of emotional detente, doing my best not to hate the only body I'll inhabit. Part of that is likely exhaustion, part of it is maturity, and part of it, honestly, is running.
While I struggle sometimes, and imagine I always will, with feeling below average on most aesthetic scales (except for dressing, I do dress quite well), I escape that battle completely when I run. The battle evaporates. It simply doesn't exist and never did. And, more than that, I love every inch of the body I routinely tear apart. I don't want to sound depressive, because in most areas of my life I'm quite content, enthusiastic even. But this is an ancient struggle as far as my psyche goes, and I'm realistic in my acknowledgment that it's not one that's likely to go away. It has its benefits, as I think it keeps me humble and also empathetic. I know how consuming self-doubt and self-judgment can be, and so I can encourage and offer advice from the perspective of one that walks a similar road. But escaping the struggle, eliminating the temptation to base my self-worth on whether or not I had bread with dinner, is a constant desire.
People ask me often why I do the distance runs. Why 26 miles? Why 10? Why not stick to 5Ks? Because every minute of those runs is a minute I do not judge the skin I'm in. In fact, I praise it. I thank God for it, instead of asking him why he had to give me such ridiculously large calves. And the more I run and the longer I run the better I get at recognizing that the legs I think of as too big and the hips I think of as too wide form a body capable of amazing things. A 5K only gives me 33 minutes (roughly) of that feeling. Distance runs give me hours of freedom.
Unfortunately, and this is the epiphany, I lack the ability to remember that gratefulness after the exertion has passed. If I loved my skin half as much as I love it at mile 17 of a trail race, I'd be dangerously close to Pride. Trail running, especially, reminds me of how intricately stitched together this body is, and how perfectly it is formed for the task of adventuring into woods and up mountains, for stumbling over tree roots (ankles are amazing contraptions), for falling and rolling and grasping tree branches to steady next steps. It's a body made to experience the Earth beneath my feet, whatever square of Earth I happen to be trekking through at a given time. And the body that leaps over creeks is the same body that puts on a suit and redlines a contract, the same body that tries on jeans at the mall, the same body that refuses to wear t-strap shoes for fear that they make her legs look fat, the same body that walks to the gas station for eggs, that wanders around the Lake with a friend, that claps her hands in church, that stands in front of the mirror and wills her thighs to shrink.
If I loved myself, or remembered that I have the capacity to love myself, in those moments to the same degree and with the same fervor as when I'm willing my right knee to press on for another mile or two, I'd have conquered a large army of demons in my lifelong struggle with physical acceptance. And every race makes me better equipped to do so. I become a better runner, yes, with each mile. And every mile gives me a chance to embrace the runner God built me to be, with no caveats about losing 10 lbs or tightening my core. And that embrace is well worth the muscle tightness after 29 miles.
I've never been one to love my body. I would say that the vast majority of my life, from age 10 or so, has been spent putting up with (that's putting it kindly) the body God decided should be mine. The bulk of this ill will was wrapped up in the same errors in perspective that other women struggle with in that I always wanted to be smaller. Always thinner. I prayed for the willpower to starve myself properly, which must be such a saddening prayer for God to hear from one of his children. Much akin to a drinker praying to be a better alcoholic.
This relationship worsened throughout my teens and 20s and then started to improve, ever so slightly, in my late 20s. I would say now I coexist with this flesh in a sort of emotional detente, doing my best not to hate the only body I'll inhabit. Part of that is likely exhaustion, part of it is maturity, and part of it, honestly, is running.
While I struggle sometimes, and imagine I always will, with feeling below average on most aesthetic scales (except for dressing, I do dress quite well), I escape that battle completely when I run. The battle evaporates. It simply doesn't exist and never did. And, more than that, I love every inch of the body I routinely tear apart. I don't want to sound depressive, because in most areas of my life I'm quite content, enthusiastic even. But this is an ancient struggle as far as my psyche goes, and I'm realistic in my acknowledgment that it's not one that's likely to go away. It has its benefits, as I think it keeps me humble and also empathetic. I know how consuming self-doubt and self-judgment can be, and so I can encourage and offer advice from the perspective of one that walks a similar road. But escaping the struggle, eliminating the temptation to base my self-worth on whether or not I had bread with dinner, is a constant desire.
People ask me often why I do the distance runs. Why 26 miles? Why 10? Why not stick to 5Ks? Because every minute of those runs is a minute I do not judge the skin I'm in. In fact, I praise it. I thank God for it, instead of asking him why he had to give me such ridiculously large calves. And the more I run and the longer I run the better I get at recognizing that the legs I think of as too big and the hips I think of as too wide form a body capable of amazing things. A 5K only gives me 33 minutes (roughly) of that feeling. Distance runs give me hours of freedom.
Unfortunately, and this is the epiphany, I lack the ability to remember that gratefulness after the exertion has passed. If I loved my skin half as much as I love it at mile 17 of a trail race, I'd be dangerously close to Pride. Trail running, especially, reminds me of how intricately stitched together this body is, and how perfectly it is formed for the task of adventuring into woods and up mountains, for stumbling over tree roots (ankles are amazing contraptions), for falling and rolling and grasping tree branches to steady next steps. It's a body made to experience the Earth beneath my feet, whatever square of Earth I happen to be trekking through at a given time. And the body that leaps over creeks is the same body that puts on a suit and redlines a contract, the same body that tries on jeans at the mall, the same body that refuses to wear t-strap shoes for fear that they make her legs look fat, the same body that walks to the gas station for eggs, that wanders around the Lake with a friend, that claps her hands in church, that stands in front of the mirror and wills her thighs to shrink.
If I loved myself, or remembered that I have the capacity to love myself, in those moments to the same degree and with the same fervor as when I'm willing my right knee to press on for another mile or two, I'd have conquered a large army of demons in my lifelong struggle with physical acceptance. And every race makes me better equipped to do so. I become a better runner, yes, with each mile. And every mile gives me a chance to embrace the runner God built me to be, with no caveats about losing 10 lbs or tightening my core. And that embrace is well worth the muscle tightness after 29 miles.
Epiphany #1: Superior Hiking Trail "Race"
Yesterday I traveled 29 miles (on foot) along the Superior Hiking Trail. When I signed up for the experience months ago (and coaxed my dear friend, Kristen, into coming along), I assumed the trail would be much like other trail races I've run in the past. I assumed we'd end up running 60-70% of the trail and walking the remaining assumed steep slopes or last few marathon miles. I'd also assumed the race would be 27 miles. Lots of incorrect assumptions.
Due to the flooding this summer in Duluth, the race was pared down to a measly 24.5 miles just prior to our start. We managed to tack on an extra 4 miles due to a couple of wrong turns that left us being dubbed "those girls" by race organizers ("those girls" who keep getting lost and calling/asking for directions). While we ran a sizeable percentage of the first 10 miles, the last 18 or so were strictly hiking due to a steep and rocky terrain I clearly knew nothing about going into the race. The organizers, in fact, didn't even refer to it as a race. It was an "experience," not a competition. I can appreciate that, especially since we came in dead last.
But the challenging of assumptions is not the epiphany referenced in this post. And as the heading would imply, there was more than one epiphany to detail. The first one, both temporally and in terms of importance, started with my forgetting my cell phone at home. Along the trail it didn't bother me, at least not much, that I couldn't text family and friends with updates as we trekked along. But the first few miles, burdened as I was by stunning views that I could not capture via phone camera, I was saddened and honestly frustrated by my inability to share the images in front of me. But the further we ran, the deeper we trekked into the woods, the more brilliant the sunrise, the more I realized how much of my frustration was at my own fears, less so any desire to share beauty with those not with me. "How will I ever remember this?" was the thought that dogged my steps. I was consumed by a need to document these moments for posterity's sake, when I should have been basking in them for the gift that they were.
I have no pictures of this trail. Kristen captured a few on her phone that may or may not turn out. But they're her pictures, not mine. She stopped to take shots at points that I wouldn't have. And she didn't stop to take the photos that would have stopped me. That's indicative of personal perspective, what strikes each of us, and the moments that struck me remain solely in my head.
The colors were perfect. I worried on the drive up that the winds around Duluth would have stripped all the ash trees of their leaves, but by some miracle we ran through woods of the deepest reds and brightest yellows. We started in the dark, headlamps illuminating a shimmer of frost. We ran for 30 or 45 minutes before the sunshine was sufficient. And a sunrise in the woods surrounding Lake Superior is a sunrise no camera could capture.
Eventually my frustration with losing the chance to properly document the experience faded and was replaced by what should have been there in the first place: gratitude. Every inch of the forest floor was peppered with color. The trees are dense enough to create a blanket of reds and oranges, but sparse enough to allow enough light to shine through for bright green grass to grow. So the fall colors exploded next to shimmery, frost-touched, just-mowed-the-lawn green shades. And while I'll never be able to share with anyone what that particular slice of Earth looked like, I'm not sure God's purpose in crafting such moments had anything to do with what I could post to Facebook.
So much of life is shared these days. I don't mean shared in the sense of emotionally bonded and burdened, but shared in the surface sense. Pictures are posted on Facebook, faces tagged. Messages flood Twitter with restaurants labeled, places checked in, hashtags properly affixed. In many ways it's a gift, because it means those who live far apart can experience, even superficially, the moments that mean something to distant loved ones. And there are connections made and friendships created by these technologies that perhaps would not have occurred without their aid. But as my frustration with my inability to "share" faded into quiet contemplation of the beauty in front of my eyes, I wondered how many moments I have failed to fully sink my teeth into because I was too consumed by the need to capture them.
Deprived of the means to document this run, I was able to experience it for what it was. It was a chance to be away from Life for a bit, in the company of a dear friend, with nothing but fall colors, the chill of autumn, and a steady supply of trail mix to support me. It was the distant sound of a train (I love trains!) when we ventured close to civilization, and the crunch of ash leaves, and the scrubbing of dirt-encrusted skin in a well-deserved shower. It was a hodgepodge of moments I could dig into without care or worry as to whether I'd take the right picture, post the right status, or text the right people with the right missive about my adventure. It was just me embedded in the moments God gave me. And I loved all of those moments.
And Epiphany #2 will be posted shortly. :)
Due to the flooding this summer in Duluth, the race was pared down to a measly 24.5 miles just prior to our start. We managed to tack on an extra 4 miles due to a couple of wrong turns that left us being dubbed "those girls" by race organizers ("those girls" who keep getting lost and calling/asking for directions). While we ran a sizeable percentage of the first 10 miles, the last 18 or so were strictly hiking due to a steep and rocky terrain I clearly knew nothing about going into the race. The organizers, in fact, didn't even refer to it as a race. It was an "experience," not a competition. I can appreciate that, especially since we came in dead last.
But the challenging of assumptions is not the epiphany referenced in this post. And as the heading would imply, there was more than one epiphany to detail. The first one, both temporally and in terms of importance, started with my forgetting my cell phone at home. Along the trail it didn't bother me, at least not much, that I couldn't text family and friends with updates as we trekked along. But the first few miles, burdened as I was by stunning views that I could not capture via phone camera, I was saddened and honestly frustrated by my inability to share the images in front of me. But the further we ran, the deeper we trekked into the woods, the more brilliant the sunrise, the more I realized how much of my frustration was at my own fears, less so any desire to share beauty with those not with me. "How will I ever remember this?" was the thought that dogged my steps. I was consumed by a need to document these moments for posterity's sake, when I should have been basking in them for the gift that they were.
I have no pictures of this trail. Kristen captured a few on her phone that may or may not turn out. But they're her pictures, not mine. She stopped to take shots at points that I wouldn't have. And she didn't stop to take the photos that would have stopped me. That's indicative of personal perspective, what strikes each of us, and the moments that struck me remain solely in my head.
The colors were perfect. I worried on the drive up that the winds around Duluth would have stripped all the ash trees of their leaves, but by some miracle we ran through woods of the deepest reds and brightest yellows. We started in the dark, headlamps illuminating a shimmer of frost. We ran for 30 or 45 minutes before the sunshine was sufficient. And a sunrise in the woods surrounding Lake Superior is a sunrise no camera could capture.
Eventually my frustration with losing the chance to properly document the experience faded and was replaced by what should have been there in the first place: gratitude. Every inch of the forest floor was peppered with color. The trees are dense enough to create a blanket of reds and oranges, but sparse enough to allow enough light to shine through for bright green grass to grow. So the fall colors exploded next to shimmery, frost-touched, just-mowed-the-lawn green shades. And while I'll never be able to share with anyone what that particular slice of Earth looked like, I'm not sure God's purpose in crafting such moments had anything to do with what I could post to Facebook.
So much of life is shared these days. I don't mean shared in the sense of emotionally bonded and burdened, but shared in the surface sense. Pictures are posted on Facebook, faces tagged. Messages flood Twitter with restaurants labeled, places checked in, hashtags properly affixed. In many ways it's a gift, because it means those who live far apart can experience, even superficially, the moments that mean something to distant loved ones. And there are connections made and friendships created by these technologies that perhaps would not have occurred without their aid. But as my frustration with my inability to "share" faded into quiet contemplation of the beauty in front of my eyes, I wondered how many moments I have failed to fully sink my teeth into because I was too consumed by the need to capture them.
Deprived of the means to document this run, I was able to experience it for what it was. It was a chance to be away from Life for a bit, in the company of a dear friend, with nothing but fall colors, the chill of autumn, and a steady supply of trail mix to support me. It was the distant sound of a train (I love trains!) when we ventured close to civilization, and the crunch of ash leaves, and the scrubbing of dirt-encrusted skin in a well-deserved shower. It was a hodgepodge of moments I could dig into without care or worry as to whether I'd take the right picture, post the right status, or text the right people with the right missive about my adventure. It was just me embedded in the moments God gave me. And I loved all of those moments.
And Epiphany #2 will be posted shortly. :)
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