When I went to my mother's doctor with her this morning, I recognized the nurse who called us back. I could tell by her face that she recognized me, too, but wasn't sure where, so I told her: I was her English teacher. I felt a surge of nearly-maternal pride to see her in her scrubs and know that I played some small part in her education. More, I felt proud of her for following through, getting an education, and making a career.

I thought of that moment later today, when in a round-about sort of way, a friend asked me what I was doing eight years ago. In the summer of 2003, I had just finished my student teaching. I had set myself the goal of enjoying every single drop of that summer, because I felt my role as a teacher bearing down on me, like a train I couldn't escape. I'd already had five or six interviews, and been offered one teaching job. I turned it down because it was at a junior high, and I'd thought, when I applied, that it was a part-time position. I couldn't bear the thought of working with seventh graders all day every day.

When my student-teaching adviser, a man whose very presence had the ability to make my blood pressure rise out of sheer anxiety, found out that I had turned down a job, he made sure to personally call me and let me know I had ruined my chances at ever finding a teaching job. Part of me didn't care, but the wiser part knew it didn't matter: I'd be given a teaching job. It was inescapable. In a way, it felt like my responsibility. Like it was a way to pay back a debt I owed the universe, which had made sure my dream of getting an English degree was fulfilled. (My junior and senior years of college were funded by a grant.) I knew I would teach.

But I didn't want to. I wanted to keep being a stay-at-home mom. My student teaching, which I'd done at a high school that was a 40-minute drive each way from home, had given me a taste of how hard it is to be a working mom with little kids. It felt like being constantly torn: if I was a good mother, I would fail at being a good teacher. The opposite was also true. No, what I wanted to do was live the fantasy. I wanted to stay home, and send Jake off to kindergarten at the school his sister had gone to, and Nathan to the preschool his brother had attended. I wanted to clean my house, to write and scrapbook and maybe learn how to quilt. I wanted to cook big meals every night. And, more than anything, I wanted desperately to have another baby.

Of course, none of that happened. I stumbled upon my teaching job, and even though I didn't want to take it, I did because I knew I needed to. Not just needed, but was supposed to. I took it, and I dedicated every bit of myself that I could to teaching. I continued feeling torn between being a mother and a teacher. I lived on caffeine and nachos and sheer willpower. Jacob, who had to go to daycare for part of the day and to kindergarten at a school by where I taught for the rest of the day, suffered. Haley, who had to get ready for school with her dad's help instead of mine, suffered. Or, at least, her hair did. Nathan, who loved and adored his daycare teacher, Miss Diane, thrived. But all the while I wondered: why, when staying home with my kids was a righteous desire, was it not granted?

Eight years later, I'm not sure I have the answer, fully, to that question. Financially, my teaching helped us fill back up the hole that Kendell's 16 months of unemployment made. We paid off our van and replenished our savings. It taught Jake at an early age that he could survive hard things like loneliness. It gave Nathan two blissful years with a teacher he loved. (He still talks about Diane.) It helped Haley develop some of her fierce independence. And I learned, as well, about the value of time, and how to be patient, and what is important. I learned that things like reading, writing, grammar, and poetry aren't important to most teenagers, even though they helped save me. I also made a sort of peace with my teenage self. I think I wanted to teach partly because subconsciously it felt like a way to reach out and connect with the angry adolescent girl I used to be in a way no teacher did. In fact, I learned an immense amount about myself and what is really, truly important to me during my teaching years. I mostly can't say that I regret them. While it was hard and exhausting and felt like it was tearing me away from my family, I loved teaching—loved having my classroom and sharing my knowledge and forming relationships with students. It held some good, shining moments.

Except, I still deeply miss the years that I didn't get to experience because I was experiencing teaching instead. I hate knowing that Nathan doesn't remember the years when he was little and I was a stay-at-home mom. I missed a lot of time with my kids because I couldn't figure out how to be a good mother and a good teacher. More than anything, I miss feeling like I deserved the blessing of being a stay-at-home mom. It became another thing I wasn't worthy of for a reason I don't understand. I am still trying to make peace with what I lost.

But I also know this: I paid my debt back. I was the best teacher I knew how to be. I answered the question "should I be an English teacher?" and I always have the answer with me: I can, but I don't have to. And being a teacher facilitated my future life in a way I couldn't have guessed at. If I hadn't been a high school English teacher, I wouldn't have gotten my current job as a librarian. I would have a different baby instead of Kaleb, and how I could I trade a dream baby for my real one? It gave me some knowledge about teenagers that has helped me with my own. And it gives me moments like I had today, when I see some young person I helped shape, and a knowledge that I had a small influence in many lives.

Eight years ago, I didn't know any of that. What did you not know eight years ago?

Ragnar 2011, the abridged version:

Leg one: 3.2 steep uphill gorgeously beautiful amazingly exhilarating miles. 34 minutes, 15 seconds.

Leg two: 5.5 rolling hilly-miles in the dark; the full moon helped me love it more than I thought I would, but night running is not my favorite. 56 minutes 10 seconds but I didn’t stop my watch when I stopped to have a volunteer help me adjust my reflective-vest straps so maybe I should count it as 55 minutes?

Leg three: 7.3 very steep downhill miles except for the very steep uphill parts. Exhaustion and daffodils and the satisfaction of finishing. 1 hour 7 minutes 7 seconds.

Ragnar 2011, the unabridged version:

The week I ran Ragnar, Haley started running again with her high school cross country team. Of course, when I was her age I was too busy burning out my gymnastics ambitions, rebelling and shopping for black clothes to pay attention to cross country (even though I still think that if some observant running coach would have grabbed me and made me run somehow, I could have been a good team asset), and therein lost my opportunity for experiencing running as anything other than a solitary endeavor. 

For me, running is about solitude. I don't have a friend who conveniently runs the same pace I do, so hence no running partner or group. When I run races, I drive to the bus by myself, or Kendell drops me off. I stand shivering in the bus line trying to mooch body heat from strangers who are probably wondering why I’m standing too close to them. I'm the person in the bus who's only appreciated by groups with odd numbers: there's always an empty seat next to me for their third or fifth member to sit in. (Quite often this person turns his or her back to me so as to facilitate talking to the rest of the group.) I hang out before the race, shivering or feeling grateful for things like fire pits or pre-race tents, by myself. I run the race alone, too. When I get to the end of the race, Kendell and some child or another is usually waiting to cheer me on. I feel conflicted about their presence at the finish line. On the one hand, I love that someone is there, waiting for me. It validates the run somehow. On the other hand, I know it's probably pretty boring for them, waiting for me to cross the finish line after having had to find a place to park, trudge over to the venue, wrestle other spectators for a good spot, and fight to keep Kaleb from getting lost or helping himself to far too many bananas. So, once the race is finished, I stretch a bit and then sprint out of there so we can just get on with our day. 

Let me stop myself from sounding like a pathetically lonely friendless runner by assuring you that in general, this doesn't bother me much. (Except, on race days it does bother me, when I find myself wishing for an actual face next to me, instead of a back, on the bus.) I like the solitude of running; I like that I can exercise and think at the same time. I do a lot of pre-writing when I'm running; I find myself time-traveling just a bit via the mechanism of music which takes me back to certain experiences or people. I talk myself down from the ledge or out of my crazies.

 Running isn't a team sport for me.

 Except what I discovered at Ragnar is that it can be. Having a team made running a whole lot more fun and pushed me to do things I wasn't sure I was able to. Back in September-ish, when Becky asked me if I wanted to join her Ragnar team, I agreed mostly for the scenery and the distance and the challenge of it. I tried to pick a leg that would be hard enough that I would have to put all my running guts on the line. But I also worried. Aside from Becky's husband, I didn't know the rest of the team. What if they found my pace pathetically slow? What if I were the one to keep everyone else from achieving their time goals? Or, even worse, what if the Becky-and-Shane association weren't enough and they still turned their backs to me?

All my social anxiety aside, though, I learned that running with a team is an amazing experience, even if at first no one knew me. I was in van 2 with Becky and Shane and three other people, Dave and Sheila who are newly married, and Mike who works with Sheila. (If you're not yet well-versed in the Ragnar experience and why there would be two vans, read this post.) Here's our team:

 
We left Becky's house at about 10:30 with Becky highly anxious that we would miss van 1's last runner at the first major exchange. I listened to her with a vague unease: I couldn't quite picture the whole exchange thing. We made it to Eden, Utah, with just seconds to spare for Sheila to start her first leg. 

Here is how the exchange works. The first runner starts running with a slap bracelet around her wrist. Her race ends at an exchange, where the second runner is (hopefully) waiting. The first runner passes the slap bracelet to the second runner and then, while the second runner is running, the rest of the team gets in the van and drives to the next exchange. Usually the vans drive along the same route the runners take, which means we pass our runner at least one time. Cheering and waving and cries of "you look awesome" ensue. Sometimes we also give water to the runner, if the leg is a van-supported one. On the longer runs, the van pulls ahead for awhile, and then parks somewhere and waits for the runner to pass again, and the cheering/water/encouragement is repeated.

 In our van, I was the fifth runner, which was good because it gave me a chance to see how the exchanges worked. (Also I had the opportunity to change into running clothes in the van, with people all around me, and hopefully that dude in the van next to me has already forgotten that terrifying sight.) By the time Dave finished his leg, I knew what to do. Unfortunately the traffic made it impossible for us to actually get to the exchange before he finished his leg, but I think he forgave us. I ran to the exchange, got the bracelet, and started running. 

My first leg was my steep uphill one. It was 3.2 miles and, while not as steep as some of the upcoming uphills would be, it was steep enough. But the scenery! Oh, my. It was gorgeous. Meadows with yellow and purple wildflowers and scenic mountain vistas. All of that vista was mountains rising in front of me, but you know I love running uphill. I knew I'd be slower than my usual 9:40-ish pace, and I was right. The first 2.2 miles took me almost exactly 20 minutes, but the last mile, which was the steepest, took almost 15. I was determined to finish the entire hill without walking, which I did save the twenty seconds I walked through the water station so I could douse my head with water—it was hot. An added bonus was that I passed four runners. The last one was a man who was running and walking. Every time he walked, I’d get closer and closer, but then he’d run again before I could catch up. I caught him with about 3/4 of a mile left to go and then pushed as hard as I could just so he didn’t pass me again.

You’d think I’d have had enough hill but when I reached my exchange, I was a little let down. I wanted to keep going on up the mountain. I finished my leg smiling, though, with that strange euphoria that good exertion brings, and then turned around and went back down the mountain. The traffic had been barely moving, and our van was still behind me. I walked the slap bracelet down to Becky, who started running her leg. I wanted to keep running with her but I don’t think they would have let me.

One of my favorite parts of the experience came during Becky’s first leg. We drove on ahead—the traffic cleared up right after the exchange—and then we started to worry. Her leg was a no-van-support leg, which meant we weren’t supposed to stop and give her water, but it seemed like she’d been running forever, uphill in the heat, so when we saw a little scenic-view pull out, we stopped. It gave me a chance to stretch in the fresh air, and then we talked and laughed while we waited for her. It felt like old (gymnastics) days, waiting to cheer on my sister, only better because we’re much friendlier now. I hoped she was OK and when she rounded the swell and started down toward us I could tell by her stride that she was. I ran down a bit to give her the water, and then ran back up with her to the van.

 
This, even more than when I ran by our van during my leg and everyone cheered for me, was when the power of having a team with you really hit me. It doesn’t just influence the person running. It means that everyone gets to be involved, somehow, with every leg.

After she finished, we posed for photos with the girls from the other van and our matching sparkly skirts:

 
(I didn’t wear mine on my first leg because it looked dumb underneath my longer pink skirt. And I don’t know why I didn’t have my argyle socks on.)

We hung out, stretched, ate some food, and admired Snow Basin (which still had plenty of snow in it), and then started driving to our next exchange. After a bit of drama (trying to sleep in a high school music room, and not getting the texts telling us van 1 was nearly done, and then rushing to get ready) we started our next legs. On the way to the exchange, I resurrected some of my forgotten gymnastics skills to tape Sheila’s swollen ankle. I passed Becky my extra pair of SmartWool socks so she could try them out. And I very quietly started freaking out. Because here I was in the mountains, in the rapidly-darkening night, and pretty soon I’d need to be running 5.5 miles. In the dark. The night world felt alien and unknown and too large for my small stride to conquer. It didn’t seem possible to charge out into the dark, nor into the cold. I felt ill-prepared for the cold. At every exchange, I’d get out of the van, visit the Honey Bucket, and ask everyone I could if they were cold. I couldn’t decide: a short sleeve, a long sleeve, a jacket, two out of three, or all of it? I didn’t have gloves or a hat or the pants I like for cold running. It was cold and dark and all of a sudden I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to be there. What the hell was I thinking, signing up for this? I’m a fair-weather runner. I like warmth and light. I like to pull my inspiration to keep going from the landscape I run through—only there I was, staring down a run in the dark. What would push me to keep going?

On the other hand, there were five other people who also were going to run in the dark, or had and survived and even loved it. What else was I going to do but run my leg, so that they could also run their next legs? So. I took a deep breath. I told myself I could do it. I thought about the trek*, when I was cold for almost three days. If I could survive that, I could survive an hour’s run in the cold dark. I cleaned the lint out of my toes, decided what to wear (a long sleeve over a short sleeve, but no jacket; I used my headband to cover my ears and borrowed Becky’s gloves for my hands), and told myself: I can do this. I set my watch for 2:25 and slept a bit while we drove to the last exchange, and then very quietly started getting ready: chapstick, and the Honey Bucket visit, and some Myomed on my ITB, and a Cliff Blok and a gulp of water. I made sure I had my music ready, and then, about when I thought Dave would be finished, I stepped out of the van and into the cold night.

One of the strange things about that night leg was how, as I left the exchange, it seemed like I was in a remote, desolate prairie-type landscape, until I crossed a road and found myself in a little town. I ran down the road, grateful for the runner who passed me only minutes after we left the exchange because it meant I had someone to follow and wouldn’t feel lost in the dark. The town ended abruptly and then, after a brief freeway, I could see water and sky. I was running next to Rockport Reservoir, which the Internet tells me looks like this:

 
in the day, but I couldn’t see much except for the bobbing tail lights of the runners in front of me, the glint of the water, and the just-past-full moon. I found myself settling into the run and being OK with running in the dark, not bothered, as I had worried, about my forehead lamp. What was bugging me was my reflective safety vest. I hadn’t adjusted the straps properly, so they were flapping everywhere and slipping off my shoulders. I tried to adjust it while running but it was impossible. I was so grateful to come across a water station. The volunteers were sitting in their car, so I just ran over, knocked on the window, and asked them to help me. One of them hopped out and adjusted my straps so they wouldn’t flap. She told me she loved my skirt and that it was more reflective than the vest anyway. I was back running in about two minutes, revived by her kindness.

Only, now I had another problem. My "tail" light had turned into a shoulder light with the adjustment of the straps. It was hooked onto the buckle that now was at my shoulder. So that tail light—imagine a round bicycle reflector, only a bigger and with a flashing red light. With every step I took, it would slap my cheek, flap against my shoulder blade, or bang against my collarbone. When it wasn’t getting tangled up in my earbud cords. Still, once I got my rhythm back, I was OK. I wasn’t cold, and I passed some runners, and some passed me, but everyone was kind and encouraging, and before I knew it I had reached the "one mile left" sign. I cannot say I loved running in the night (my bruised collarbone would tell you I hated it), but I survived. I experienced that thing that being with a team sometimes forces you to do: I did something I didn’t think I could.

The pass off to Becky went well, and then I started to freeze. I do this whenever I stop running, but being sweaty in the cold made my usual shivers worse. I had to get out of my wet clothes and hope that my brother-in-law will forgive me for stripping off both tops, down to my sports bra, right there in the passenger seat, just so I could get something dry on. And I hope he can forgive me for totally failing in my passenger-seat responsibilities, which were to talk to him and keep him awake. I couldn’t keep myself awake. I was beyond exhausted (which is strange considering I’d only run just shy of 9 miles so far) and the next hour or so—cheering Becky on, and waiting for her to pass so we could cheer some more, and then getting her from the exchange and driving to the next resting spot—is a blur. We walked across the wet grass to a school, paid our two bucks so we could sleep, and then I crashed. That kind of sleep when you’re down in the darkness before you’ve even stopped lying down.

It’s amazing how rejuvenating an hour’s worth of sleep is. Toss in a trip to the bathroom, the chance to wash my face and brush my teeth, clean running clothes and fresh deodorant application and I felt like a new woman! I was ready to run my last leg. The four runners before me had some tough, tough legs, especially Shane and Dave, who ran the infamous Ragnar Hill. I didn’t know how to envision that hill; it looked a lot like the Squaw Peak Road* in my imagination. In reality it was nothing like that. More like a wide trail up a very steep mountain. A very steep mountain topped with snow. And people were running it. Running it! Shane, in fact, got to his exchange before our van did. I don’t know Dave (who ran the second part of the uphill) very well, but I felt like part of me was running right along side him. Like I was tossing him some psychic energy along with my extra Bloks (the kind with caffeine in them). No—what it really felt like was that I was privileged to witness something extraordinary. That mountain was tough, and it went on and on and on, but both Shane and Dave kept going. It was inspiring. That’s probably a weird thing to say, but by that point I felt close to everyone. We knew each others’ injuries and beverage preferences by this point, and had been breathing in each others’ dried sweat. How much closer can you be to people?

My leg started at almost the top of the mountain. The view was incredible: a mountain meadow still filled with snow, blue sky, and the aspens just turning that early-spring color because at 9,000 feet it really was still early spring.

 
I stood in my sweatshirt and running skirt, shivering before the start. When the wind blew across that snow pack it felt like the mountain’s icy breath. But I didn’t wait long; Dave came up the last bit of hill and I was off.

I had mentally prepared myself for a long downhill, not realizing that the first half mile or so was a steep uphill to the top of the mountain. I’m ashamed to admit that I immediately, immediately felt the exhaustion in my legs. I say ashamed because it’s not as if I’d already done a lot of running. My other two legs were distances I can comfortably run. I suppose it was the combination of running them just six or so hours apart, the limited sleep, and the altitude. Whatever the cause, though, I started out tired. Not even 200 yards into my run, I came upon another team’s van. It was decked out in camo gear, the windows painted with something about battling cancer. Its runners were some tough-looking dudes in camo running gear. As I passed that van, one of them yelled "blue sparkly tutu girl! You are looking strong!" and while maybe he was joking, it gave me the boost I needed to feel OK with running on my exhausted legs.

After the first switchback, I started closing the gap between me and another runner:

 
(the guy ahead of me in the blue shirt) and when I caught up with him I joked that this was supposed to be the downhill leg (we were still slogging up the mountain). He laughed and encouraged me to keep running strong. Then my team’s van cheered me on as they passed. And then, just as I reached the top of the mountain, that camo van passed me. The dude’s cheer of "sparkly skirt girl! You’re tough and I love you!" pushed me right over the top of the mountain. At last! The promised downhill. And really: it was downhill. Steep, punishing downhill. But gorgeous. The view at the top was incredible, with the snow and the new leaves and the precipitous drops and the peaks jutting into the distance. Unlike the back side of the mountain, which Shane and Dave had run up, this was cultivated mountain, ski resort mountain. The downhill was paved, winding through alpine scenery and bound with cedar fences. At one point I ran past a little meadow with freshly-bloomed daffodils. Daffodils in June!

Usually I can push it on a good downhill. I’ve been practicing a bit with landing more on my toes than on my heels, so I worked on that. I tried to push. But my legs were empty. There wasn’t much push in them left. At first this discouraged me, especially when that guy I’d passed going up the mountain passed me going down. But then I just decided I’d go with what I had. I knew that, at least, I wouldn’t have to walk. I could run those seven downhill miles! This was great until I hit the three short but steep uphill sections. I confess: ashamed again, I walked up those hills. I couldn’t do anything more. I did catch up to top-of-the-mountain boy and pass him again while walking up, and he didn’t pass me again, so there’s that. As soon as the downhill started again, I ran again. But honestly: I’ve never walked during a race, save through the water station. Part of me wasn’t able to hear the "yeah, but" reasons why I shouldn’t be embarrassed about walking. Most of me just wished I were stronger. But I kept going, and I suppose that’s what matters. In fact, it is part of the transcendent solitude of running: no matter how many people are cheering you from the sidelines, you are the only one who can run your run. You can only give what you have, and I did give it everything I had left.

The last long switchback gave me a good view of the exchange. I could see Becky in her purple sparkly skirt, my team behind her, and I nearly teared up except I can’t run and cry at the same time. Instead I just tried to push it with everything I had left, so I could come in strong. I slapped the bracelet on her wrist and hugged her before she left,

 
and then my Ragnar running was over for the year. The rest of us headed off in a bus to the finish line to wait for Becky. I drank my icy-cold Propel and ate a few handfuls of nuts. I also got some chocolate milk at the finish line with Sheila. But once my running adrenaline wore out, I felt awful. In fact, while the rest of the team was standing at the staging area just before Becky came in, I was sitting because if I’d tried to stand I think I would have fallen right down. I do this after a long hike, too. I think it’s because of my anti-water tendencies. I’m afraid of drinking too much and having to throw up, so I don’t drink enough and then I finish right on the edge of being dehydrated. But I did manage to haul myself around the track with the rest of my team, and pose for photos, and walk back to the bus and then meet up with my mom who’d come to watch us finish and was driving me home.

Now, a week later, I’m still thinking about Ragnar. The only thing that’s stopping me from a resounding "yes, I’ll run this next year and every single year of my life until I can’t hobble any longer" is that guilt I feel for running races in the first place. I want to run it again. I want to start stronger and finish less exhausted. I want to run the same legs, or different legs. But for now, I’m back to focusing on my other races this year, the half in August and whatever fall marathon I finally choose. In fact, I thought about my upcoming marathon a lot during my last Ragnar leg. It was right after my van had passed me for the second time. They had to split off and take a different route than the one I was running on, and I’d asked Becky to get out and give me a gulp of water and my last Blok. This was in the middle of one of those impossible uphills, and her encouragement helped so much. Just her presence there helped, and hearing the others in the van cheering. They pulled away, and that was when I thought of the marathon. None of that will happen during that race. I’ll be back to being the solitary runner sitting alone on the bus and feeling anxious as I near the finish line for making my family wait for me. For just a second I thought I don’t know if I can do an entire 26.2 miles without anyone to cheer me on. How lonely will that be? And it probably will be, a little. But I think the strength I gained from having a Ragnar team will carry me through the marathon, too, if only by the breadth of memory. When I run the marathon I’ll remember thinking about running the marathon while I ran Ragnar, and some of the sweetness of that specific Ragnar energy will seep back into my legs. I’ll be OK without my team. But I’ll also miss them.

Thank you for all your encouraging comments about my Ragnar! Once I can manage to lower myself into my computer chair (the act of sitting down is extremely painful right now due to that last seven miles of sheer downhill exhausted exhilaration) I will share all the details.

Until then, perhaps you might check out my first summertime daily at Write. Click. Scrapbook.. It's a photo challenge that will help you document a few things about summer you might otherwise overlook.

And with that I am off to ice, heat, and repeat, as well as replenish my dehydrated muscles with lots of liquid. I can't get enough orange juice!

As you're reading this, I'll be somewhere along the mountain roads of Utah, running Ragnar. If you are wondering "what is Ragnar?" then you are not alone; lots of people have asked me the same question!

"Ragnar" is a term from Scandinavian mythology. It refers to a man of divine ancestry who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated by bold exploits, and favored of the gods. I'm not sure how the Scandinavians feel about it, but I am including "woman" in that definition. Of course, there's not much divinity in my ancestry, but I do hail from one Scandinavian pioneer whose story reminds me that I have courage and strength in my bloodline.

In running, Ragnar is a relay race. There are Ragnars all over the country now, but it started in Utah. The course is 199 miles through the east side of the Wasatch mountains, so it's called the Wasatch Back (the west side of the Wasatch is called the Wasatch front). Everyone who runs Ragnar is on a team, either a regular (12 people) or an ultra (6 people). Each person on a regular team runs 3 legs of varying distances. The rest of the team drives to the next exchange while one runner is running his or her leg. (The ultra teams, who are obviously insane or just better runners than I am, run 6 legs instead of 3.)

Ragnar courses are scenic—and tough. While there are various distances in each leg, they all include some bit of uphill or downhill. My leg is #11, and it includes 4 miles of "steep uphill," 5 fairly flat miles run next to a reservoir which I will probably conquer in the dark, and the 7 miles of "steep downhill." Last weekend, I was talking to my sister-in-law, who is driving her friends' Ragnar team's van (she's not running, in other words, just driving). She was baffled that people would pay money to go through such an experience. My husband, who really does love and support me in my running, nevertheless agrees with her. Why pay money to simply run on a road, when there is a road just outside your door you can run on for free?

In fact, they're pretty much on the same page as the woman in this video:

(tee hee)

I've written about this very topic before. I like racing because it gives a purpose to my exercise. And so I have a challenge I'm always working on. But it isn't only that; it's also about the landscape. In races, you run in places you might not otherwise, because of traffic or land restrictions or fear. (I would love to do more trail running but, as I don't have a running partner, I don't do it very often since that insistent voice insists on wondering "what if you were attacked?") You get to run down the middle of a road, instead of on the berm, without worrying about cars. You get bussed to a scenic spot to start and then you run through desert, or mountains, or along a lake or beside the ocean.

Landscape matters to me.

I'm writing this the day before I leave to meet up with Becky and head to our Ragnar exchange station. And despite my love of racing, I have to say: I am nervous about this race. It comes from not knowing exactly what to expect (I like to know what to expect) and from worrying about my abilities. Have I trained enough? Will my ITB flair up? Will all the sitting-in-the-van time between my turns to run make my back flair up? What if it rains and my shoes get wet on the first leg? What if I'm forgetting something?

But I'm trusting in Becky, who's run this before and assures me I can do it, too. And my friend at work who is also, coincidentally, running leg #11. (With 13,000 runners it's highly unlikely that I'll see him, but I might!) And my old neighbor, who is on an Ultra team.

I can do this, right?

So if you're reading this sometime on Friday or Saturday, pause for a second and send me some strong-running vibes. Proffer up an offering to the running gods. And know that I'll be keeping the idea of Ragnar (wo)man in my head to make myself strong, too.

(Eventually I might actually write one of these on the first day of the month; I realize that June is already halfway over and I'm just now posting the May review, but I still didn't want to miss it.)

In addition to the endless rain (the wettest month in Utah ever, in the history of weather record keeping), here's what happened in May:

Entire Family Stuff

• We went to Melissa’s baby Lydia’s blessing on May 22; played with her cats, admired the cousins’ ducks, gooed at the new baby
• We celebrated Mother’s Day with a Saturday concert that Haley sang in; on Sunday I made spaghetti and red sauce for dinner, just to make myself happy
• We celebrated Memorial Day by eating lunch at In ‘n Out; the boys went to see Kung Fu Panda 2; Nathan, Kaleb, and Amy decorated graves on the Friday before since it was supposed to rain all weekend (it started raining as we left the cemetery and then rained almost all weekend)
• For who-knows-what odd reason, the neighborhood paper boy picked May as the month to dump all his extra Sunday papers into our yard. Every Sunday we woke up to a pile of 7-10 newspapers. What the?

Kendell

• asked me approximately 1,278 times "what are we going to do to entertain the kids this summer?" Perhaps someone else out there has better ideas than mine?
• won the "I support my wife’s running habit" award by driving me to the top of Squaw Peak Road and picking me up at the bottom. (This involved a lot of sitting around in the car and waiting for me, something he’s not a fan of.)
• decided, on the spur of the moment, to go back to school so he can finish his associates. Classes on the block schedule means that almost every second of his free time in May was spent doing Astronomy homework. (Nathan calls this his "boring space crap")
• has been pronounced completely healed from April's gallbladder surgery.

Amy

• I ran lots and lots of miles in preparation for Ragnar; these miles taught me that running is perhaps the only time when my back doesn't have a low-grade ache going on
• I was astounded at how much I remember from my own Astronomy class, the one I took in 1992 or 1993. It is, after all, my second-favorite science! Lots of helping Kendell with homework and studying.
• listened to lots of Adele and a newly-discovered band, The Naked and Famous
• had a month of rereading: The Lord of the Rings trilogy (which I started as comfort reading during Kendell's hospital stay), The Book Thief and Birthmarked. I also read a couple of books about hiking in Grand Tetons National Park for an upcoming trip (I'm already frustrated at having to choose the hikes; I wish I could just go on all of them!)
• goal for the month: zero soda. None, nada, zilch. I made it! I had a few tough moments but managed to talk myself down from the soda craving.
• To support Haley (see below), I did almost zero baking. I did have to make a cake for a funeral (which, by the way, I remembered I was supposed to bake about 45 minutes before I had to leave for the day; thank goodness for the ease and speediness of a good sheet cake recipe!), and after the scent of sheet cake wafted through the house, I was powerless in the face of my craving until I finally made one for our family (on Mother’s Day). That was it, though, for baking. Much less sugar at our house. (Although, dare I confess: I polished off an entire bag of white chocolate chips in about 3 weeks. You know you’re desperate when you resort to naked chocolate chips for your sugar rush.)

Haley

• goal for the month: no sugar. She did it! I'm very proud of her. She's actually not eaten candy for years, but has a weakness for beverages of the Icee/Slurpee persuasion. And cookies. (Me too, sister!) But she was strong and resisted, even when faced with entire dessert tables.
• Sang beautifully at her Mother’s Day choir concert
• Found out she was accepted on the Nordstrom fashion board, the Con Brio choir council, and the city youth council; these took away a bit of the sting of not making the choir she really wanted to be in
• Finished reading Great Expectations and also read The Diary of Anne Frank—for, strangely enough, her math class (I still haven’t figured that one out!)
• finished her sophomore year of high school with a straight 4.0 for the year!

Jake

• At the end of April, I handed him a book I thought he’d like, The Hunchback Assignments. It had an enormous hold list so he only had two weeks to finish it. He read about 3/4ths of it and then couldn’t find it. We turned the house upside down looking for that book. I nearly just claimed it lost and paid for it several times. Almost six WEEKS later I had the ah-ha moment to check at the library of his junior high. Yep, it was there, along with six other books waiting to be returned to the public library. I took all of them back and still feel relieved, since we looked for the book for nearly the entire month.
• For his junior high awards assembly, he received the Student of the Year award in PE. I only had my little camera with me, as Kendell’s other class is a photography and so he’s always got my big camera. This was the photo I got of him: 
  (and it’s also why even though it’s nice to have a small camera in my purse, I still like using my big camera better, just because of the speed factor)
• Grew another inch or so; he needs a new suit for church because his arms are just too long for his current one. The growing of this boy amazes me!
• Finished seventh grade just shy of a 4.0; he had one A- back in the second term, but in the rest of his classes he earned As.

Nathan

• got to attend the special maturation program at school; plenty of "ah ha" and "that’s gross!" moments. But he survived!
• participated in the "Hope of America" school program that our district kids do here in 5^th grade. It’s every school in our district; they sing different patriotic songs. He liked it just fine, but even better (and I’ll agree with his assessment) was the morning of his practice. He was done with school at 11:00, so I picked him up from his practice and he hung out with me. We didn’t do much: went to Costco, ran to the mall to do some returns, picked up lunch from Sonic. After the errands, we went home and he helped me plant some flowers and some seeds. It was a rare non-raining May day and we just talked, and hung out, and it was a good, sweet afternoon. I loved this day!
• Finished 5th grade with straight As.

Kaleb

• The week before the last week of school, all the kindergarteners were off so they could have their kindergarten assessments. I was griping to Becky about how it seems every other week kindergarten is cancelled for one reason or another. She pointed out that when her kindergartner, Ben, was having a week off for the same reason, she tried to savor it because it was her last week with just him at home with her. I started crying right when I got off the phone with her because I realized just how right she was: my last week alone with Kaleb. So I made sure to savor it, too. We did lots of everyday but fun things, like going to the greenhouse, visiting my dad, stopping by our favorite bakery for dinner rolls. It was a good, sweet week together!
• He astounded me at his assessment. His reading skills literally tripled in the three months since the last assessment. My anxiety over his learning lessened a whole big bunch in that moment!
• Highlight of the month: seeing Grandma Sue’s kittens. He’s still talking about them!

About two years before my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he had a sudden spike in what I'm convinced was a long-term, low-grade depression. He threatened to commit suicide and then spent some time in an inpatient mental hospital. One of the "prescriptions" his doctors gave him: stop reading so many dark books.

He followed this prescription; he put away the Steven King novels and whatever else that could be considered "dark." He started reading the scriptures more. Becky and I gave him the omnibus edition of The Lord of the Rings, and he read that, too. (It is, I believe, one of the last books he read and understood.)

That memory has resurfaced for me as I've read and thought about this article from the Wall Street Journal about the darkness in much of today's young adult literature. It argues that publishers let too much violence and swearing into the teen novels they publish, and that this darkness will help create teenagers who are troubled or depraved. And while I confess that there are a lot of "dark" teen novels published, I can say without doubt that they are not the only kind. There are plenty of lighter and/or brighter books published, despite the failure of the Amy in the article (who left her local Barnes and Noble defeated and empty-handed). As with all things, finding the right book requires effort, talking to others, reading reviews, and spending some time reading jacket copy. Still, the article insists that teen novels are dark, and that said darkness is "a hall of fun-house mirrors, constantly reflecting back hideously distorted portrayals of what life is."

There is much of me that rejects this argument. It is the same sunny-side-up logic that calls for the repeal of Planned Parenthood funding, the sort that believes that if we eliminate the darker options, people will therefore start to choose the sunnier parts. Happy, well-adjusted teens, the argument seems to go, will simply happen if we limit their reading to the cheery and uplifting. But adolescence, while admittedly full of its own pleasures, isn't always the sunniest place to be. Books about darkness don't create darkness. Darkness comes from the lives those adolescents have lived. Choices like drinking, doing drugs, becoming anorexic or bulimic, or cutting (which seems to be the topic that raises the most hackles) don't happen out of nowhere. They happen because teenagers are always on the brink of something, caught in the edgiest and intense part of becoming adults, and when you toss in some sort of trauma, darkness happens.

Of course, my own adolescent darkness also gives texture to my perspective. I can't answer the "do dark books create darkness?" question without thinking of my own dark self struggling through ages 15-18. I didn't constrain myself to just one genre as a teenager. My tastes ranged from V. C. Andrews to L. M. Montgomery. I read a lot of Danielle Steel and all of Harry Harrison's West of Eden trilogy. My favorite novel was Little Women(I know! Paint that picture for yourself: white-blonde girl dressed in black clothes, black suede fringed jacket and silver-toed combat boots immersed in Jo's adventures), but I'd plunge myself into the world of nearly any book—so long as it took me out of my own reality. Reading had always been intensely pleasurable for me, but at that time in my life it was also an intense escape, a brief salve before I stepped back into my ache. The difficult, gory, supernatural, or foreboding things I read about still brought me escape because even though the novels presented things of a dark color, the hue was different from mine.

I do wonder: if I'd immersed myself in happy-happy-joy-joy sorts of books (examples of which I cannot proffer), would they have made it easier for me to deal with my troubles? I cannot say either way, because it didn't happen. Did reading about bad, violent things happening to other people make my own bad violences worse? Perhaps. Maybe, like my dad, my depression was exacerbated by some of what I read. Or dark books made it easier to step into darkness, because it was familiar. Perhaps the books cast a certain glamour upon the darkness. Or, perhaps the opposite: they made me feel normal because they helped me know that I wasn't the only unhappy person in the world. Or maybe all of those things were true. Maybe the solution to my problems—as with all of adolescent angst—was multifarious. Books, as well as life, shoved me into darkness, but life—including books—eventually taught me how to deal.

The writer of the WSJ article places, I believe, too much importance on books themselves. That sentence seems very nearly sacrilegious for a person like me—libriarian, bibliophile, logophile, aspiring writer, obsessive reader who always has a book in her purse. With my very soul I know that books can evoke change in readers, both for good and bad, but I also know they are not the only force in a reader's life. External experiences, the real stuff those teenagers are living through, evoke much more change. And you can be sure that the violence, swearing, drinking, drugging, and cutting they are reading about they didn't discover in a novel. They discovered it in their lives, through their experiences.

The article also doesn't allow for personal reading preference. Whatever the cause, I am just never going to be the reader that's satisfied by fluffy novels.  I'm just not. Reading happy-happy-joy-joy novels with improbably happy endings feels like a waste of my time. I continue to be drawn to the dark side in the sense that I like reality in the novels I read. I don't like novels that end with an undeserved fairy tale. I like my characters to suffer and learn and become better because that is also how I live. One of my librarian friends just today nailed my reading preferences as she made a suggestion for a book she thought I'd like. "If I finish a book and I loved it but can't exactly explain why, then I know it's a book you'll love," she said. "If I finish it and I'm sort of sad, I know it will make you happy." I laughed and agreed and we shared the "there's a book for every reader" that's become my librarian mantra. Some teens are drawn to dark reads because that is just the kind of book they like to read.

More than anything, what the WSJ article fails to observe is that books, like any media, require parental involvement. Not in the sense of "gatekeeping" or "those who think it's appropriate to guide what young people read." I'm not going to rely on publishers to not publish books that might be problematic to my opinion for what is appropriate for my kids to read. Instead, I am going to rely on myself, and I do this by actually reading the same books my children read. Or at the very least, thumbing through, reading bits and pieces, or reading about the books on the numerous book review sites available. But I don't stop there: I also try to talk to my kids about what they read. I've been known to spout off long emails about the virtuous (or non-) actions of a certain character and what I think about them. I talk about why Bella and Edward are complete idiots and why the ending to Mockingjay wasn't as bad as everyone things it is. I've even taught my kids to spot typos and grammatical errors in the books they read; they bring them to me so we can chuckle over them. We talk about what is good writing and what isn't; they know it is OK to put down a book if they don't like it or if its issues are too intense for them. They've even stopped reading books because there was too much swearing for their comfort. This comes not because I am a stellar example (trust me, they've heard me swear before), but because of that one simple act: we talk about books. I use books for one of the exact reasons they exist: to teach. Yes, even novels teach something and I think it's our job as parents to use them as teaching opportunities, not to ban them or make them forbidden.

Despite the admonition to "guide what young people read," what I want more is to teach my young people how to think. In that way, books—be they dark or sunny—as well as movies, music, and even, yes, the dreaded and much-despised (by me) video games can help move their intelligence forward. Of course, I don't always get things right. I don't read everything my kids read. But I do pay attention to what they are reading, just as I do with what movies they go to or what songs I buy for them. Instead of pretending that darkness doesn't exist, I am trying to give them at least one light to hold up against it.

You know how, when you're trying to lose weight, one of the recommendations is to keep a food diary? The theory is that you'll eat less if you have to write it down.

I tried that once. It worked for about four days, until I had a food meltdown and was too embarrassed to write down everything I ate on the fifth day. Instead of eating less, I just wrote less in my food diary.

Yep, I confess: I only wrote down the good days.

Which is maybe why I still have a lingering ten pounds or so I'd like to shed. Honestly, today was one of those days I would never have written down in my food diary. So why am I writing it down on my blog? Who knows, other than perhaps the thought of public humiliation might stop me on my next day when I am consumed by uncontrollable munchies?

Probably not. I just won't blog about it again. But I'm feeling brave, or stupid, or just on the edge of a self-induced food coma, so here I am, posting today's food diary:

• chocolate sheet cake for breakfast. Seriously! I make the pioneer woman sheet cake (if I weren't spiraling towards a sugar crash I'd totally post the link) which has, seriously, nearly two pounds of butter. This was cake #1 yesterday for our family barbecue.
• then, to feel a little bit more nutritious, I also had a bowl of raisin bran.
• blueberry sour cream pound cake for an after-church snack. I was thinking about this cake all throughout the last meeting. It was cake #2 yesterday, and not as many people liked it, so I had more left overs.
• 18 Cheezitz
• 1 slice of muenster cheese
• 1 baby bell cheese
• another slice of blueberry sour cream pound cake
• 8 baby carrots to counteract the two slices of cake
• 2 cheese roll ups (actually, Kendell helped me eat these, so I really only had about 1 1/3. Redemption!)
• 1 small scoop of pasta salad and 1/2 of a garlic bread stick for dinner, which I mostly ate just to keep company with the kids
• 1 can of Pepsi

See. Told you. A shameful, shameful food day. Haley made me feel a bit better when she pointed out that I am training for a big race, and I'm running tons of miles a week. Until I counted and realized...20 miles a week isn't exactly tons.

But tons might be the direction I am headed toward if I have more days like today. Tomorrow I must get back on the eat-healthy thing.

Yesterday morning, I found myself standing on the sidewalk in our neighborhood, talking to my friend Jamie for a few minutes. The woman who lives in the house we were standing in front of opened her front room drapes and, at that instant, right in the middle of talking to Jamie, I had this weird little moment. I wondered how that woman, who I know from church and from her blog, but not really well, sees me.

I go through the world thinking a certain way about myself, and I assume everyone else thinks the same: a flighty woman who's almostput together, late to everything. A bit unreliable but with good intentions. Strong opinions that I rarely share out loud. A messy pony tail more often than not.

I don't think I portray strong, confident womanhood or exceptional success. Nothing out of the ordinary except for the fact that I often, even at my advanced age of 39, walk around with a naked face. But right there on the sidewalk, I had the thought: maybe other people, people who know me in passing, don't see me in the same way I see myself.

I think this thought grew out of something someone else said at church. She was talking about something disheartening that had happened to her, and how she couldn't start feeling better about it, couldn't move past it, until she let go of her own feelings of self pity. She was entitled to feel hurt, she explained, but not to hold onto it. Do *I* hold on to self pity? I asked myself. And the nearly immediate answer was I hold on to everything. 

And I do. Not really in the sense of forgiving others, but I do tend to hold on tight to my feelings of justified damage. I forgive the person who did whatever it was that hurt, but I hold on to the hurt. I remember cruel things people have said, for whatever reason, and then I rub my tongue over them. I keep my wounds fresh and red; I continue looking for proof that what was said was the truth. I think I do this because it is a sort of panacea: it is easier to hurt and worry over yesterday's damage than to believe today will be damage-free---and then have my expectations slashed.

But it's also why I probably don't see myself in the most positive light. This is an old, old habit, from way back in my gothy days. I didn't understand this then, but one reason I dressed all in black was to create a sort of anti-judgement force field around myself. If I dressed that way then people would judge me a certain way, and I knewthey would judge me that way, so I could expect the eye rolls and the shaking heads and the whispers behind their hands. What if I didn't dress that way, though, and the judgements happened anyway?

Now, of course, I don't look gothy anymore. But I still project my force field by assuming that others will see me in a certain (negative) light---so I see myself that way first. It's a twisted sort of protection, more damaging than I intend. By now perhaps the habit is so ingrained in me that I will never overcome it. But I feel a sort of inspiration to at least try, to assume that others perceive good things about me, and maybe then I can, too.

Sunday was Kendell's birthday and today was Kaleb's, so we celebrated both on Sunday with the traditional Grandmas Party. I made two desserts, since Kendell doesn't love cake and Kaleb doesn't love grown-up desserts. Everyone (except my inner thighs) was happy!

Last year, on Kaleb's fifth birthday, we didn't call this event the Grandmas Party. It was the Grandparents Party, because Kendell's dad still came. In fact, Kaleb's fifth party was the last one Kent came to:

As I sat at the table for this year's party, I looked at my mom and my mother-in-law and wondered: how long will it last? What birthday will it be when it is just one grandma, and then none? I hope we get in a good run of Grandma Parties before that happens, but I still felt a deep, unexpected sadness settle down on me. Maybe it was because of the weather: warm at last, the sun lowering and that delicious summer-night coolness wafting through my hair. "There are moments when the body is as numinous as words," the poet Robert Hass says in a poem, "days that are the good flesh continuing." That moment in the angled sunlight felt like that poem, a thin wire of grief wrapped up in all the happiness.

Numinous.

And sweetened, of course, by two desserts. Here are the recipes, just so I don't forget:

Lime Icebox Dessert

2 cups graham cracker crumbs
1/2 cups butter

1 cup lime or lemon juice
2 cans sweetened condensed milk
zest of one lime or lemon
2 cups whipped cream
1/3 cup powdered sugar
1 tsp vanilla
dash salt

Combine graham crackers and melted butter; press into a 9x13 pan. Zest the lime or lemon, then juice enough for one cup. Whisk juice and sweetened condensed milk together. In a separate bowl, whip the cream till stiff; add the sugar, vanilla, and salt to the cream. Fold the cream into the juice mixture. Pour over the crust, then chill for at least four hours.

Bask in the adoration.

Perfect White Chocolate Buttercream Frosting

1 bag white chocolate chips (11 ounces)
3/4 cup whipping cream
1 cup butter
dash salt
1 tsp vanilla
3-ish cups powdered sugar

On low heat, preferrably in a double boiler, melt chocolate. Add whipping cream and stir until smooth. Allow to cool to room temperature. Beat with butter, salt, and vanilla till creamy; add enough powdered sugar to reach desired stiffness. Enough to frost a two-layer cake with leftovers for graham crackers. This frosting is best if you allow it to chill after frosting the cake. So deliciously flavored!

I grew up with cats. There was Misty who Becky once sat on and sent the poor thing into labor. And Hooter (yes, his name means exactly what you're thinking), who I told all my prepubescent secrets to. There was the season of dying cats which exacerbated my already-over-the-top teenaged gothy melancholy. The black cat that my family thought was ours—until we figured out that his week-long absences were happening because our next-door neighbors also thought he was theirs. My mom got me a cat, Noelle, the Christmas I was 17 because I told her I either wanted a cat or my own baby, and she was desperate.  The next year Becky got her own siamese, who was named Chris. He was enormous and once, cornered in a dark part of the flower garden, gave my dad such a ferocious scratch he had to take a ten-day course of antibiotics.

At heart, I am a cat girl.

Kendell, however, doesn't have similar cat affections. Since the demise of Emily, our family has been taking a cat sabbatical. This is only because Kendell doesn't like cats, as all the rest of us pine and yearn for and desire above all to once again be cat owners. I am trying to be fair: Kendell dealt for 15 years having a detested cat. Now it is my turn to deal without a cat for awhile.

(I joke with him that I'm stopping at the pet store on my way home from his funeral.)

My mom remains a loyal cat person, and recently her Siamese cat, Princess, had kittens. We've been to visit them twice now and I, unfortunately, have fallen in love with this one. Meet Paisley:

 
(the one on the left; she has the cutest calico-esque markings but most of her is white with very faint Siamese-colored stripes.) Oh, I love her! I want to bring her home and make her a part of our family.

It's just that little thing about how compromise makes for a happier marriage that's holding me back.

I am wont to joke around about the word "compromise." My personal definition: the thing you choose with the goal of making everyone happy that really makes no one happy. In the cat situation, it means it's my turn to be unhappy about a decision.  Since Kendell was unhappy for our 15 years with Emily, I guess that's fair.

Compromise and the attempt to be a reasonable, fair wife aside, I am still head-over-heels in love with that kitten. It happened when I held her and named her and she crawled up my shirt until her little head was nestled under my chin. I don't know what to do with this feeling. Except for thinking that I should visit my mom again, very, very soon.