It's the Little Things

Last week, while running my usual 2.7 mile route around my neighborhood, I was able to shave one minute and 30 seconds off of my mile time, and about four minutes off of my total time. I was pumped!  (But resisted the urge to tweet my success when I realized that most runners would not be proud of an 11-minute mile). 

Still, whatever the numbers, it was a success for me.  So what made the difference?  For the first time I told myself to run as if I had long legs (which I don't), and to take larger strides.

One of my best friends back in Tennessee recently got into running. She's run in three 5K's this fall and is already faster than me, even though I've been running, off and on, for more than three years now.  She has been very dedicated, yes.  But she also has reeeallly loooong legs -- Heidi Klum-length legs -- and I'm guessing that helps her, too.

So, as an experiment I decided to pretend that I also had model-length legs, force myself to take longer strides, and see if it made any difference.  It did!

I was actually quite surprised that a simple mental trick could improve my speed and time as much as it did.  As I contemplate my goals for this new year, I have to ask myself if small, simple things could also make a difference in other areas of my life.

You Know You're Married to a Baseball Coach When...

This one is for you Coach. 

1. You can tell the difference between an 82 MPH fastball and an 86 MPH fastball.  No seriously, I can.  Once after a baseball game Joe asked me what I thought of the team.  I responded, "Honestly honey, I thought our guy didn't seem to be throwing very hard."  "Well, yeah." Joe replied.  "He was only throwing about 82-84.  You're used to seeing 86-88."  Seriously?  I surprised even myself on that one.

2. Your four year-old son who is just learning how to play basketball says, "Mom, I just scored a run!" every time the basketball makes it into the goal.

Birthday Reflections II

I've known for several weeks that my Birthday Reflections entry called for a follow-up post.  The problem has been that I haven't known exactly what I wanted to communicate in a Part Two. 

I still don't. 

Except to write that, I am OK.  I am still breathing.  Functioning.  Working.  Caring for my kids, husband and new house.  Oh and, don't forget, the puppy. I've been busy unpacking boxes, folding laundry and singing with the boys: "They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight, shunting trucks and hauling freight..." (Actually, I am really just trying to see if I can get Thomas the Tank Engine into every single one of my blog posts.  You know, like the little mouse that pops up on every page of the book, Goodnight Moon?  But I digress.)
 
The usual. 

After my October 11 post, I received concerned phone calls, texts, emails, Facebook messages and even an invitation to visit a church here in Poplar Bluff. It had resonated with some of you because, as you shared with me, you struggle with the same issues.  It made others of you worried.  And sadly, some of my dearest and most intimate friends?  You actually felt guilty that you hadn't done more, listened more, or encouraged more. 

My intention was not to scare anyone, and of course it was not to make anyone feel guilty. I was not seeking sympathy either, although your messages were lovely, just like a hug reaching across time, distance and my cell phone or computer screen. 

I wrote what I wrote because I couldn't not write what I wrote.  For myself.  The night before my birthday was an important moment, a sort of turning point, and when I sat down to process it, everything spilled out onto the page.  And I was glad, too, because it was a night I wanted to remember.

Birthday Reflections

Another birthday means another year in the books.  What will I remember as I flip through the pages of my life’s 33^rd chapter?   As I reflect on the last year, sometimes it is hard to sift out the stand-out moments from the everyday ordinariness of life and work. 

I have been crying, or on the verge of tears, most of this last week.  I’ve been complaining to my husband about the difficulties of having recently moved to a new place, whining about the things I don’t like about it here in Poplar Bluff and wallowing in self-pity.  Last night though, was the worst.  I fell apart. 

Joe and I were standing in the kitchen.  The dinner dishes had all been cleaned and put away.  Our two boys were quietly in their beds for the night.  The kitchen was dark but for the light over the stove.  Everything in the house was peaceful, yet inside my heart was a category-5 hurricane rapidly approaching land.