work it out

Just fair warning that I am writing this blog post very late at night under the influence of several potentially dangerous situations:

1. Coming down off the *high* that time with Mr. Perfect always produces. Yes, I'm back from California. And yes, it was good in a way I'm not ready to put into words yet. Also scary. Scary good.

2. Coming down off the *high* that writing something so potentially brilliant creates. I have been a writing beast lately. Finished several flash fiction pieces that seemed to perfectly join into a collection which, with a little fluffing, could easily become my first novel or novella. And it's beautiful, which makes me cry just to think that I produced something like it. With my own hands and brain. Really, if I can finish it right in the next few months, I really don't see how it can NOT get published.

3. Coming down off the *high* that Ben and Jerry's S'mores ice cream gives me. It was on sale. And I missed national ice cream day a few days ago so I'm making up for it tonight. At least I scooped an honest one serving out of the pint and into a dish. Go me.

So, in the midst of all this physical/emotional crashing I'm doing--a metaphor came to me: 

A year ago, I started trail running in the foothills surrounding my city. It started as hiking, and then one day--I couldn't just walk anymore. My legs started to move faster, then faster, and they didn't stop. For miles they didn't stop. And suddenly--I was a runner. Which I'd always loathed when it was just me and pavement and neighborhood and car exhaust to breathe. But the hills were different. 

They were like a difficult game I knew instinctively how to beat. 

I knew where to plant my feet to get the most leverage to get me up an incline the fastest. How high and long to leap to get over a boulder.  How to deftly (and non-rudely) slide around slower people on the trail. How to spot and avoid slippery sandy patches. I've done hundreds of trail runs now and only fell once (with the lingering scar to prove it). I feel like a pro.

What I love about running the most (besides the health benefits, the beautiful nature, and the divine booty it has sculpted me) is that it's just me and the trail. A starting point and a stopping point. And the only thing that makes the difference in getting from one to the other is me--how fast I go, how much  I put into it. It's my efforts that get me there.  And even if I have to slow down, I know I'm not going to stop. I'm going to get to the end and get back. Clean, done, ta-dum.

I kinda wish all life were like that, you know. 

Because really, I can see where I'm at now and I can see where I want to be. I can see the distance, the layout, all the obstacles I need to leap and scale. I've started running--a great, even pace. The breeze at my back. The just-right music in my ears. Confidence in the muscles of my legs. But gosh darn it (!)--the trail on this journey keeps changing on me. Boulders change size. Places that weren't sandy suddenly turn so. Poisonous snakes slither out of the sage.  Packs of touristy old folks with walking sticks and floppy hats materialize out of nowhere and leave no place to get around. I'm knocking some innocent bystanders over in my haste.

My efforts just don't seem to do the same thing in this trail called "real life." I feel I have to rely too much on stuff like "luck", and "opportunity", and "patience", and "money", and "magic."  The agency of others, too, putting all kinds of bends in the trail I can't see around. 

I have never been afraid of work. Not even really, really hard work. No task is above or below me. "Put your head down and go to work." My Mom taught me that. And every checklist I complete gets  a smiley face put in the 'finished' box,  and a sense of pride I've done my  best, or darn near it. Despite being a complete creative type, I'm thrilled I've figured out how to schedule and plan and hold things together in a semi-organized manner working between four boys and five jobs and seven email accounts.

On days when I'm not much more than an ugly, cried-out, stressed-out husk of myself who feels she has nothing to offer and who is only going to fail those who depend on me the most. Those days I wonder how long I can get away with just pulling the blanket over my head and doing nothing. Well, I know I always have my labor to offer. 

To my family. To my job. In service to others in whatever capacity. I've been blessed with a capable, strong body that can just go and go with little sleep and little food.

I have worked so. very. hard. these last four years to get to the point I want so badly to be at. And several times, the summit has seemed in sight. There's a bench there, and a drinking fountain, and a million dollar view. Rest. And then...switch-o, change-o. Everything shifts around. Keep running, girl.

Not that I am not thrilled with what I *have* accomplished. Really, I'm pretty awesome, I know that. (horn tooted) But, it doesn't mean I'm not dog tired. I know many of you can relate. It's so easy not to think about all the people who have been sitting on that kooshy bench at the summit for a long time. How did they figure out how to get up there? Was their trail up there easier? If so, do they really appreciate the view?

I don't have answers tonight. But I do have a Source I can ask the questions to. And I have faith. And I have a little more strength left in me. And I have more Ben and Jerry's in the freezer.

Work will work stuff out, I think.

I run on.