Run your own Race

It’s a mistake I’ve made more than once. The energy and adrenaline of the start of the race get me all riled up and I head out at a pace that isn’t sustainable. It’s a mistake that really catches up with you later on, when your legs are heavy and your chest is heaving and you’ve still got a few kays to go before the end but there really isn’t much more in the tank.

“Run your own race!” is the message every rookie needs to hear. Don’t get caught up with what other people are doing, don’t compare yourself to the person to your left or your right, but trust your training, know yourself, and follow what you know to do.

This morning I came across this blog and it was a very timely reminder to me that, in running as in life, I am to run my own race.

I’ll confess that it’s been a bumpy ride the last few weeks. I’m emotionally weary after endless tearful conversations with our daughter about school-related anxiety, and interminable debates with my husband about what to do about it. One day, we’d be certain that it was right to take a strong line, to encourage her to go back to school and face the music. The next, after a visit to a counsellor-friend or another interrupted, nightmare-filled sleep, we’d feel it was right to find another way. Should academic concerns trump psychological ones, or vice versa? There didn’t seem to be a ‘right’ answer and trying to figure it out was giving me a perpetual headache.

Once she was finally brave enough to reveal some concrete details about what was actually going on at school, we came off the fence. Given the situation, it really seemed the right choice - for this child, at this point - to find an alternative schooling solution. We’ve been relieved to discover an online school option, run from the UK and following the British curriculum, that meets her need.

And even as I write that, I recognise my urge to justify the decision, to make you understand that I am not a flakey parent blown this way and that by the whims of my emotional child; that I am strong and intelligent and that I, the parent, am calling the shots, dammit!

I had coffee this morning with a good friend who also happens to be a very experienced secondary school teacher. I shared with her how this decision came about and she commiserated with me that parenting doesn’t come with a ‘how to’ manual. And yet, in the telling, I still felt this inner doubt: what if I’ve just allowed myself to be tugged around by a child's emotions like a puppet on a string? Surely other people would have been stronger, sent her back to school, ignored the tears and the tantrums?

One thing that has helped me over these weeks is the idea of taking the long-range view. I think this is a bit like thinking of the end of the race when you’re at the beginning—carefully considering how you’ll feel about your pace on setting off when you’re at kilometre 8, or 19 or 36. When I think of myself at the age of 60, sitting down for coffee with my then adult daughter and reflecting on this part of the race, will I regret making the decision to lighten her load, to give her room to mature slowly, to let academics take a different form for the sake of overall well-being?

I don’t think so. But here’s the thing: this is my race, our race. It doesn’t help me to look at other families, to compare with other kids (even her sister) or to stick with some narrow idea of success, or even of education. 

So this is me, lifting my head to take in the far horizon. And then, deliberately choosing not to eye the speedster overtaking on my right hand side, I look just far enough ahead to see the ground I have to cover next. I breathe deep, trusting that I will settle into the right pace for this part of the race and knowing that it is a race the requires endurance and grit.

I will run my own race. See you at the finish.

Does it matter that I have a body?

You know that feeling, when you can feel a piece of grit or a little stone inside your shoe? As much as you try to ignore it and keep walking, that thing keeps bothering you until you stop and give it the attention it requires.

So, I have this little stone in my shoe and it is begging for attention.

One of the things that has long intrigued me is the number of amazing people I know--genuine heroes of faith, people with stories about proving God in ways that cause my jaw to drop, whose lives are truly inspiring--who struggle to take care of their bodies. 

My mind goes to the hundreds of friends and colleagues who are at this moment gathering in Costa Rica for a biennial conference. The theme of the conference is ‘On Earth As It Is In Heaven.’  I would so love to be there—there’ll be a lot of inspiring talks and tonnes of stimulating conversations. And I wonder when the conversation will turn to what heaven on earth looks like for embodied beings? Us—with our hearts pumping blood, our muscles carrying our weighty skeleton, and the breath in our lungs reminding us that we are alive!

Just to be clear, I am not foolish enough to imagine that being a Jesus follower makes us exempt from physical limitations. I am certainly not saying that being people of the Kingdom should make of us all lean, mean, muscle machines. But somehow I want my vision of the fulness of life Jesus said he came to bring to include my physical self, in a way that fits my limitations and my capacities.

I believe that somehow the inner work I do to more fully become the person I was meant to be, affects the way I live in my body. And vice versa—that the work I do to take care of my physical self has an affect on who I am on the inside. I think Dallas Willard, guru of the mechanics of personal and spiritual development, said something to that effect—that spiritual formation should be in evidence in the way I am in my body, or else we might question whether it is happening at all (of course, I can’t find the exact quote).

So, this little piece of grit in my shoe is taking me on a journey of discovery. And, like all great adventures, the first step is to become aware that a journey is possible. Like receiving an invitation to a party and RSVPing, 'Yes, sure I'll come!' I'm heading down the road and I hope that you'll come along for a stretch.

To join the conversation, find me on Facebook to join my 'Living Whole' Facebook group, or post a comment below. In the coming weeks we will be exchanging thoughts about how our physical selves affect and are affected by the rest of who we are. Hope to see you there!

A Silent Prayer

Some days I can see the redeeming effects of habits repeated, day after day. I can see the value of the small things, done faithfully; even the small and the mundane.

But some days I can't. I feel suffocated by the small and apparently insignificant. I feel discouraged by the act of doing the same thing over and over, never certain whether it makes any difference.

Marriage is like this.

Of course, I tell myself, the small things matter. The goodbyes, the hellos, the thank yous, the appreciation, the kindness, the small gestures of love and commitment. But there are days - weeks even - when these things seem to make no difference at all. Where is the fruit in terms of connection, trust and closeness?

Raising kids is like this.

Daily getting them out of bed with kisses, spending time instead of doing other things, speaking words of love and encouragement. And yet, still a teen who hates going to school, not obviously more capable of dealing with negative emotions or anxiety. Where is the fruit of maturity, of strengthening, of resilience?

At times I want to give up the small gestures of love and faithfulness. I want to go for the grand gesture of a memorable exit. I want my dramatic gesture to be noticed, to stop the ordinary and the mundane in its tracks. I want to breathe, and shout, and yell instead of holding my breath in this place of squeezing faithfulness out of my unwilling self.

They say hope deferred makes the heart sick. There is a certain sickness in living in the midst of daily choices that for a time may offer no obvious fruit. But perhaps this place of squeezing is the true field of the battle; maybe this is the canvas on which the true picture is to be painted.

Each brushstroke a determined choosing, a surrendered pressing in, a single stroke by an artist who will only later see the beauty of the overall work of art. Perhaps much of redemption is about finding meaning in the small and the ordinary, offering up a silent prayer that this too will count.

Halfway

We’re halfway there, so they say.

Halfway. 

By now we should have seen some progress;

Though a couple of false starts might be allowed.

Then rungs must be climbed,

Titles assumed, status established.

A cellar stocked, new wheels bought.

Wrinkles filled, where necessary.

Halfway there

And so little to show for it.

Leaves curl and flutter in the gathering wind.

Halfway to a lifetime of loving.

I can tell you of the softness of a baby’s cheek

Now tan and lit by eyes that sparkle humour.

Of loving the same, solid body

That reaches for mine, night after night.

Of sharing half a lifetime of sunsets and caresses.

Of journeys to unknown places that become

Memories of songs sung, friends made,

Islands dancing beyond the trees.

Only halfway there.

And yet, could the place

They sent you in search of

Be any more solid than here?

Light me up

I am ambivalent about being told which day of the year I am to express especial love to my beloved. This Valentine's, though, I got to thinking about the different seasons of love - that first flash of intensity, that flares again at different moments; that slow-burning flame that burns low but long; the light that we share in so many different ways at different times of our story, that is the light we make between us.

Along these lines, I scribbled a poem into my journal. 

Our love is light

Our love has been the flare of singular blinding light

That causes the world to reposition;

A light that blinds, and yet rescues.

In this light I have leapt into the unknown;

I have raced to shady places in grassy fields;

I have lain, and rocked, and danced.

And our love has been the beam of a lighthouse,

A regular, turning shaft across the rocks;

Holding back from shipwreck, and destruction.

In this light we have stood strong;

We have been brave, we have been faithful;

We have held firm, and shone bright.

Our love has been the flicker of a candle;

A warming glow that draws, it beckons ever closer;

A circle of invitation, a comfort in the night.

Into this light we have welcomed,

Made room for warm bodies around the table;

We have held hands, and shared stories, and laughed.

I’ll take the bright but short-lived flare

That lights up the night, 

And lodges in my heart.

I’ll take the sweeping beams

That cast dangers into shadow

And bring courage to my eyes.

I’ll take the candle’s flicker,

Step towards its humble flame

Feel the life it offers.

And I will trust that any ember

Will respond to our breath

And spring forth, in time, with hearty flame.

Our love is light, in all its bright guises.

Life is an Adventure ... sometimes packaged small

Some time ago, an old friend complained that Tim and I seemed to be having too many adventures. They wanted adventures too, dammit! 

Well, I wrestled for a while. Do I make out that life is too much fun? Should I speak more openly about the tough stuff? Is it a mistake to find beauty everywhere, and ways to enjoy that beauty?

This was early in our time in Spain and I am happy to say that, rather than ditching our adventurous side, it has brought us to a new level of embracing who we are made to be. We are hard-wired for adventure! While it is not true to say that we are following adventure where it takes us - that would be to negate all the other reasons why we live where we live, and do what we do (if you need a refresher on that, I will post more another time) - it is true that we make adventure wherever we are.

Of course, when we were young we had heaps of adventures. Like many young people, we hiked, and climbed, and hitchhiked, and biked, and built fires, and snorkelled, and kayaked, and whitewater-rafted, and camped, and abseiled, and para-glided, and swung off bridges, and ran mountain trails, and drove through some pretty hair-raising places.

Now, of course, we are in mid-life. We have two kids, we have bills to pay and a house to maintain; cars to fix and work deadlines coming out of our ears. It’s time for the adventure to stop, surely?

I’d like to say a great, fat NO to that sort of thinking.

Life is what you make it. Adventurous escapades recharge us and keep us young. And there are ways to keep the adventures coming, even through the years of raising kids and building a career. Tim and I find adventure in the beauty of wild places, so we’ve learned to combine something a little out-of-the-ordinary with fun places and good food, for an adventure that’s manageable for the whole family.

Here are some of our ideas for injecting adventure into the everyday.

1. Ditch that extra episode on Netflix

Years ago we bought a little Trangia spirit stove. You can buy one for 20 quid and they are brilliant - easily portable and can be used anywhere. One thing we love to do is pack a day sack with this little gem, a few teabags, maybe some South African rusks or a couple of muffins. We’ll hike somewhere for 30 or 40 minutes, then brew up and sit and look at the view for a while before hiking back. Such a simple thing, but the perfect mini-adventure in the middle of a busy week. The kids love it and I guarantee you’ll feel more connected with yourself and your hiking buddies on your return.

Other ideas: No Trangia? Take a flask instead; go for a trail run; sit around the fire pit telling stories and toasting marshmallows; lay outside at night and look at the stars.

2. Give your spouse a lie-in, or head into work late one morning

One thing having kids teaches you, and that’s to make adventure manageable. Small people may not be able to hike for 3 hours, but they can hike for 45 minutes to an hour, set up camp while you fry up breakfast on a small fire or stove, and make their way home again on full tummies. This is a great one for giving your other half a lie-in on the weekend! Or why not get a few buddies together and agree to head into work late one morning, after a hike and a full English in the great outdoors? Making breakfast al fresco gives you the feeling of having had much longer outdoors; it gives you time to share meaningful conversation while rustling up those eggs; and it adds that sparkle of adventure to an otherwise ordinary day.

Other ideas: Go for an off-road bike ride; head out for a picnic somewhere where you can boulder or free-climb; brave an outdoor swim and make tea to warm up afterwards; go running at night with a head torch; hike somewhere quiet where you can string up a hammock - take a book to read aloud.

3. You want a weekend in the middle of the week

A couple of years ago, Tim and Keziah invested in a bivvy bag each. These little beauties keep you warm and dry overnight without the need for lugging a tent around. A perfect micro-adventure is to leave after work one evening with your pack loaded with supper, breakfast, and enough warm stuff for a night outside. Hike to a spot you’ve identified as being safe, and off the beaten track but relatively accessible. Transform the time you’d be at home - making supper and doing just one more load of laundry - into a mini campout that turns an ordinary week into something special.

Other ideas: Spend an evening at the local climbing wall; pack up your supper and head somewhere where you can see the stars.

4. Half your weekend is filled with chores

If you live near water, you’re bound to find places to hire a kayak. There’s nothing better than paddling for a couple of hours, and stopping to swim and picnic. Even inexperienced paddlers can find a calm stretch of river or a lake and give their arm muscles a workout on the water. The addition of food eaten outside and a wild water swim can make a single day feel twice as long. If you can't get to water, you can grab a group of friends and head out to a spot where you can light a campfire and have an all-day camp-out without the overnight - take games, hammocks and your sense of adventure.

Other ideas: take an all-day hike or bike somewhere new; stand-up paddle boarding is a great alternative and easy to pick up.

I like to think that our sense of adventure has prepared us for the life we lead, when sometimes the challenges loom large. And in the midst of the challenges, a manageable micro-adventure recharges our batteries and fills up our joy tanks.

Outdoor fun might not be your thing ... but what do you find life-giving and where do you seek it out?

All of me, more of the time

Do you ever feel like your life is a funny jumble of assorted realities? As I lay on my back on the living room carpet, trying to combine a pre-run stretch with listening to an audio meditation I’d been wanting to find time for, I had to chuckle to myself. Life is such an odd assortment of weird juxtapositions.

Any parent knows this well. We are constantly being batted from one level of conversation (“Mom, I’m thinking of turning vegan; do you know our stomachs don’t even have the right sort of enzymes to digest animal products?”), to another (“Babe, did you think about whether we should use our savings for that trip?”), to another (“Mom, I’ve lost my football boots!”). Quite frankly, any single family conversation could be fuel for a cartoon strip.

Recently, after some months of sharing little quality time together and with no prospect of suddenly having chunks of free time, Tim and I agreed to simply make the most of the moments we have ‘between things.’ We’re making a point of grabbing a coffee in between dropping the kids at their activities, or meeting for lunch on a workday instead of just having lunch at our desks. Of course, this does mean that there are times when one of us is hastily re-dressing while the other stifles their smiles in order to answer the Skype call they have scheduled about some regional crisis! As I said, life is a jumble.

I guess it should come as no surprise, then, that at times it is difficult to reconcile these disparate realities. Right now, I’m aware of the irony of feeling called to create times of contemplation and reflection for others, when my life leaves very little time for me to be reflective myself. Surely my work lacks a certain authority when I am struggling to slow down enough to live reflectively in the midst of an over-stuffed daily life?

Maybe what I am really asking is this: what do you do when you feel like a fraud? 

It is easy to present to others just one aspect of who we are. But is it possible to live as an integrated whole in some ways that bring health to all the elements of what our lives look like? I don’t mean that everyone needs to know everything about us - God save us from Facebook levels of self-disclosure - but something more subtle might be achievable, surely? 

Is it possible for me to more consciously bring all of who I am into my various interactions? 

In many ways, we learn from a young age not to do this. We swallow our sorrows because we’re told to put a smile on our face. We fake breezy insouciance when we’re dying of anxiety. We laugh with our spouse at the dinner party, having just had a big row in the car on the way over. And, perhaps most deadly of all, we pretend we have it all together for the people at church, because we think that’s the requirement for fitting in there.

I’m not saying it’s not appropriate to put certain emotions or experiences to one side for a while. But I do think it’s easy to become fragmented, with multiple, slightly schizophrenic versions of ourselves being called on for different contexts. Somehow I want to learn to bring all these parts of myself together as I go through life.

So I’m choosing to embrace the life that I have, with all its busyness and challenges, and to press into my calling to contemplation, reflection and art-creation. And it goes both ways; what I’m learning about living reflectively and creatively must be infecting my day-to-day reality too. Even when that means getting up an hour before the kids because it’s the only time I can be sure of being undisturbed as I sit with my coffee and journal. 

And even when it means listening to an audio meditation while I stretch, before dashing out the door for a run.