Finding Jgirl

     First of all, to those of you that somehow still find your way to this blog every now and then; thank you. I feel like a visitor myself after not sharing anything here for over 2 years. It feels a bit like coming home as I read stories of past adventures that I have shared here with all of you and recorded as memories to recall on days like today.
   
  Speaking of days like today....

Did I mention that today finds me in the beautiful city of Charlotte, North Carolina? I am tucked in the newest city here, established in 2008 on the South side of the Queen City. Getting here has been a long journey but I am so happy to finally call it my home. The runner in me has found a feeling greater than "happiness" could ever describe. There are paths beside the river that go on for more miles than my legs could ever run. My thoughts have room to wander long after my feet have retired.      I feel at peace here, like it is my final destination. There is no need for me to ever pack up a box and unload my treasures ever again; the end of my rainbow is here; in this beautiful city. I have found my pot of gold.

The Playground

  As the years go by; time and responsibilities can make it almost impossible to have a moment where you are as carefree as a child. Especially, when your, "child", is a full blown teenager! Time has a way of slipping up on us while we are cleaning and doing laundry and driving our little people from here to there over and over again. It can leave us exhausted, both our bodies and our hearts to see life pass us by so quickly.
   We soon find that more times than not; their rooms are left empty as they celebrate the joy of growing older with those that are closer to growing older with them. We miss them, but find happiness in the sound of teenage giggles as laughing girls come to rescue them from a quiet day with Mom.
     Sometimes as I watch them drive away; I try to remember what it felt like to be without a care and laughter so extreme that you have to grab the friend beside you by the arm to keep from falling down. I have to smile to myself as I think of the ridiculousness of adolescence. (I definitely couldn't do it again). I sigh as I sit in the quiet house that fleeing teens have left behind. The room with posters I'll never understand and a half wrinkled blanket holding only a lonely cat and a half eaten bowl of Cheetos; anxiously awaits their return. I'm tempted to go on one of my cleaning binges but remember the humiliation it brings my drama filled teenager so I dig deep to find the strength to walk away.

     As I'm walking away I see them there staring at me; my new shoes with less than 4 miles wear on their spiffy new tread. I smile to myself as I remember that I am the only one home. I even get a bit giddy as I remember that everything that needs to be done is done. I'm happier than a teenager with her best bud as I lace up my happy feet and make my way to the car.

      Driving, I can hardly wait to get out of the car and dab a little sunscreen on my shoulders and nose. I strap on my music and place my ear buds in my ears and walk to the starting point of my favorite running path. I am a kid and this is my playground. I walk a little to warm up my happy legs and I'm off. Running like a kid that was just told to go play on his favorite swing. I'm swinging and sliding and running up the big hill that beat me up a week ago. My mind is far away from anything grown up that troubled me an hour ago. I am as carefree as a kid at camp or a teenager escaping to laugh the day away. I have escaped and played to exhaustion; I even giggle to myself when I see that I've finished the same path that has beat me up in the days before with little effort. How amazing it is to stop thinking so much and just play. Run on my friends....

Somewhere Over the Rainbow...

     I'm not quite ready to call myself a runner yet, despite my sunburned shoulders and nose, from my lunchtime feast of climbing hills and patting the much too warm pavement. I've always been my very worst critic; harder on myself than any person should probably even be on a stranger. I stopped a few times; just to walk for a minute; I actually looked at the 60 seconds pass as I caught my breath at the top of the hill and started running again. Ahhhh, running again; it's all I've wanted to do since I stopped running.
I felt the wind in my face as my feet pounded the hard sidewalk; nothing was better than coming down the hill that you struggled to climb at the start of your run. Nothing was better than your legs and feet gliding back to the start with no pain; well except for maybe the cold bottle of water that was waiting at the finish.
Running has always been a place for me to go that delivered a sense of peace. It's always much the same; the start is not that fun; waiting for the body and mind to come to life. It usually takes me about 8 minutes to feel alive and just like that; rainbows and fireworks! No, seriously; rainbows and fireworks, and if you don't believe it; you must download Josh Groban singing, "Somewhere over the Rainbow", as you tackle your hardest hill and truly feel like you can fly when you finally realize you've reached the top...

I'm still battling my old 4 mile loop; the same loop that I was running as a young soldier, a young mother and now as a daughter recovering from the loss of my wonderful father. Sometimes, life becomes so not full of "Life" that we completely forget what brings us to "Life". Today I remembered and hopefully, too many days won't pass again where I will allow myself to forget. Maybe I will even consider calling myself a runner again after all. Surely, if Home is Where the Heart is then a runner must also be the product of where his happy heart is  as well.
Run on my friends...

Healing through the smallest of miracles

I wasn't sure I'd made the right decision as the rain started to mist from the sky as I drove; but still I drove as if it had never started. I was hungry for something to help me download the sorrow and pain of the last few months and nothing I'd tried thus far had done anything but left me starving with an unending anxiety. Of course if you compared my hunger to the ever-growing numbers on the scale; it would definitely be up for objection. However, today, I didn't have time to complain about what perfect numbers should appear on my scale or to count reps and sets as I looked around at the crowd of people in the gym around me; I needed to be here again, letting my feet decide my path...

I stretched toward the sky as the rain drops ran down my forehead and into my tired eyes. My feet seeming so anxious to finally take off and put some miles in after the week of snowed in days. Slowly I warmed up into a smooth pace trying not to allow myself to start off too fast. My mind once again returning to the place it always goes when I run. I was there sitting on the edge of the bed with the phone against my ear waiting for the news that had scared me all day. I ran as the thoughts crept in my mind. Little by little I heard the words of my baby sister in my ear....cancer.....Daddy.....here.....there.....everywhere.....I remembered her cries as I ran. My heart raced as my mind allowed its self to recall...

The sad truth about healing is that we have to put ourselves through the pain of remembering. It seems that the process would be quite the opposite. The mind can be that way, it always seems to require the one thing that we thought would hurt it more. However, here as I ran; I let my mind decide the fate of those 30 minutes. I ran and I cried as I remembered each moment of the five months that have passed since my father received his life changing news; but still my legs and feet led me through another path on my trail. And just when I thought my heart would explode, my mind took a different route and I saw him standing there waiting for me to dry my eyes. My Daddy there at every occasion I could recall. Waiting to kiss me goodbye for each prom and his chin quivering with tears as I boarded my first airplane; His arms open wide in the same spot of the airport when I returned. I saw him there with my sister as they danced at her wedding and his happy tears streaming down his face as my oldest sister delivered his first grandson to his anxious arms....

And finally, as I saw the end of my run in the distance ahead; my mind recalled the most precious memory of them all. The moment when that same grandson lay his son in his arms and he officially became a great grandfather. I'm sure the Lord has delivered us a sign as I imagine that my Dad is probably holding our sweet baby Jace as I type this for all of you to read. I just pray that this sweet little angel will continue to give him the strength that he needs to heal. We can heal if it is the Lord's will and we believe in the miracles that he can give to us. Thank him my friends, for each tiny little miracle that he blesses you with and don't forget to kiss them on their chubby little cheeks. "Strength is sometimes found in the Smallest of Miracles" Jena Goldberg

Everybody has a story...

Have you ever seen an older person as you've rushed from place to place through your busy day? Did it ever cross your mind that they were a bit too slow because you needed to move a bit faster to get where you were going?
I believe, because I am guilty of it myself, that sometimes we take for granted the wisdom of those that have lived here much longer than ourselves. We sometimes write them off as just souls that are waiting out the final days of their time here on this earth; especially when we discover that they are the ripe age of 101. I am certain that once we discover that a person we associate ourselves with is a hundred and one years old that we automatically assume that they are not as sharp in their mind as they were twenty years ago and from time to time; it even crosses our minds that they must even be a bit feeble minded.

However, regardless of the opinions that we have already decided to be fact; sometimes our whole perception of those wise old souls can change in a second. I've watched my daughter return to the same piano teacher over the past 4 years of moving back and forth to NC. I've always felt quite fortunate to have a graduate in music of the Methodist University teach my daughter for so many years to embrace the joy of music. I'd always ran in and picked up Abbi and just smiled at the old soul that seemed to take such joy in teaching my red headed girl to tickle the ivory's since she was 5 years old. I never thought much more about her after picking up my little red headed beauty and driving away until the following week until I took the time to listen to what she had to say one day before driving away.

Just like all the times before; I'd rushed in to pick up my now "almost 13 year old" and say hello and goodbye as I rushed home to make dinner for my starving family. However, today was different as my red headed girl whispered to me that she had discovered the 101 year old secret that I never would have guessed to be anymore than 80. My heart sank to my feet as I pondered how much my red headed beauty had grown to love this old soul in front of me. Of course human nature leads us to think of merely one thing when we hear so many numbers belonging to someone's age; we automatically think that their days are few. I walked away with my amazed red~headed beauty smiling like she'd discovered the greatest news ever. She told everyone that would listen that her piano teacher was 101 years old proudly!~

I felt different the next week dropping her off for her hour long lesson; a bit sad that soon this day might belong to another teacher with a more youthful style that didn't teach the same old fashioned love of music that the happy old soul taught my daughter. I walked in the same way, hoping to rush out and home to cook dinner but I didn't get to leave quite as easily today....

She gave us the pictures from the recital the week before and she smiled as she placed the family one in my hand. I noticed a set of striking blue eyes that I'd never taken note of before looking at me as she told me how much she'd loved our pictures. I saw a smile that was lined with a hint of pink lipstick that led up to perfectly rosey cheeks and lined eyes that she'd taken a long time to perfectly paint for the days students. I realized that even at my what seemed young now, 39 years that I hadn't even taken the time to perfectly paint my eyes in weeks. I looked up at a painting on the wall as I waited for my girl to collect her books and I saw those big blue eyes smile at me again, "I painted that she said with a smiling face". Wow! I thought to myself how amazing to find out that this talented old soul was once a painter and a musician!

She told me story after story of her college days and of art competitions and blue ribbons and of piano recitals that she'd been having for over 50 years. Her eyes lowered as she told me of losing the man she loved but then they brightened again as she recalled stories of the way he treated her in those younger days before. I even heard a girlish laugh as she told me of the nicknames he gave her and of the time they discovered bunnies living in a hole in the front yard and he'd called her to see them; leading her to believe it was a herd of snakes. Her bright blue eyes lit up with laughter as she pointed to the spot in the yard that they once lived. She stood up happily smiling because someone had taken the time to listen to the story she'd had to tell and walked us to the door.

I know that Monday dinners will never be ready by 630 for many days to come as long as this happy old soul is teaching my daughter the joy of a long life filled with music; but I also know that sometimes we have to take the time to listen to the stories that those wiser than us have to tell. I feel lucky to be the one that was fortunate enough to get to realize that despite the years that have passed us~we are all just people with a story and sometimes even a girlie laugh....listen to what they have to tell you my friends, they have a story too<3 p="">

"Wish I could go tomorrow"

Surfers have always fascinated me. I've watched their too tan bodies from the shore on numerous occasions. It's amazing to me that one wouldn't get a bit frustrated trying to catch a wave after being wiped out time and time again into the rumbling ocean. It seems like a lot of work for such a short lived rush. I just can't imagine working so hard for something that lasts sometimes less than a minute.

It's even more amazing as I sit over my coffee and watch the story of a young teenager in neon board shorts telling the story of the terror he felt as a shark sunk his razor sharp teeth into his leg. It gives me chills to even try to imagine how it must feel to be in the ocean and know that a shark has chosen your leg for an afternoon snack. I'm certain it would keep me from trying to catch any more waves in the future. However, this young man had the same response as many before him in the same situation. "I'm definitely going to surf in the future, wish I could go tomorrow."

It's always shocking for us to hear stories of someone suffering from a great injury and their response is that they can't wait to put themselves back in the same situation again. I thought of this young man as I ran on my 11 week post surgery foot this morning for just the second time after recovering from surgery. It was a little easier to take off today than it was that very first time. I think we always have a fear of things healing like they are supposed to or even of re-injuring ourselves when we get back out there for the first few times. However, the love of the rush rather it be surfing or running or even falling from the sky a zillion feet in the air is usually greater than the fear of the risk, so we find ourselves back out there hoping for the best outcome.

I usually hang out on the shore when I'm at the ocean. I love the sound of the sea, the smell of the salt and sunscreen that lingers in the air as I drag my feet on the edge of the sandy shore. I must admit though, sometimes I do look out beyond that endless blue ocean and wonder what it would be like to feel the water under my feet and the waves slapping my back. I smile as I see them picking up their boards and making their way up and down, setting and resetting the perfect position to catch the perfect wave. I move a little closer until I can feel the water sinking my feet into the sand. I can't swim so I run as I smell the ocean breeze in the wind against my face. I don't even put on shoes but just pitter~patter in the soft sand beneath my feet; mile after painless mile. I start to understand more why the answer is always, "wish I could go tomorrow". As  
I finish and grab my towel and a cold bottle of water; I can't help but have the same response. I sure hope I can do this again tomorrow.
Life is short my friends, do what you love <3 p="">

The Terror or Running

I am a runner; even as I sit here recovering from the foot surgery that I had last week, there is something that I still know in my heart and that's that I will always be a runner. As a matter of fact, I am marking off the days until I can lace up a pair of new sneakers and break them in with my new improved right foot.
Imagining myself gliding down my old familiar trails is so amazing that I can hardly allow myself to spend too much time indulging. I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas; which in case you didn't know, will be in about 6 weeks for my excited feet. Pitter patter, pitter patter pat! I can hear their rhythmic sound in sync with my breathing already, Santa's on the way!
The love I have for running hit me hard when I woke up to the coverage of the Boston Marathon on my local news channel today. Great, I thought to myself, "I'm in a cast on the day of the Boston", not a good way to feel motivated on a Monday. My heart ached as I saw my fellow North Carolinians making their way to mile 23 with that familiar worn out but happy runner's high smile on all of their faces. I was envious for sure. I'd never been fast enough to qualify for Boston in my consistent years and here I was at 39 laying on the sofa in a cast, ouch!
I made a pat with myself at that very moment to train for Boston when my foot got back to 100 percent; lots of people run Boston at forty. Yep, it's a promise and I shook my own hand and rolled my eyes at my bandaged foot and the runners running across my screen........but then......I cried and prayed for those very same souls that I'd just wished to be. I couldn't believe my eyes when I heard the loud bomb and the sound of the voice in the distance yelling, "Oh My God", "Oh My God"!

A bomb at the finish line of the Boston Marathon was all I heard the news anchor state. Two dead, many injured. I felt guilty, I felt sad, I felt so blessed to have my foot wrapped up in a cast with no possibility of being there; and that made me feel guilty again. I saw the disappointed, confused and freightened faces of my fellow runners and the loved ones that supported them on the sidelines and I just cried...

I cried for the ones that lost their lives for no reason at all, and for the ones that came to accomplish a goal that probably took them years to accomplish. My heart broke for the love ones that they carried away in wheel chairs to unfamiliar hospitals only because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time; a place on the side of the finish line to see the ones that they loved smile as they crossed over. This was unreal, beyond sad and unfortunate. God be with them, all of them, the families, the law enforcement, soldiers, fire dept and all of those that are the assisters in this great, troubled nation and Dear God please be with the runners and keep their feet pitter~pattering until the pain of this day is less.