Thursday, June 22, 2017

Black Lives Matter

I am thinking it is time for another marathon. I have put it off due to slowness and sickness and tons of work and fear. But time just keeps ticking and I am pushing 50 and I think a marathon is in order.

Now both of my parents died in their 60's, so pushing 50 is no joke. When you are 20, time is endless, when you are 30, you still feel pretty invincible. When you are 40 you start to sweat a little, like shit I am 40 and I had better do all those things I meant to do 20 years ago but never did. Except when you are 40 you are likely busy, either raising children or building your career or having a mid-life crisis. But when you are 47 going on 48?

We got a letter today from our son at San Quentin. He is just barely 19 and in the special needs yard. Which is interesting, because he was considered "special needs" when we adopted him. At first that seemed accurate, as he needed thickened formula due to tracheomalacia. But as we got to know him, and saw him (literally) make other mothers nearly cry from jealousy in the sandbox when they realized that at 12 months old he was speaking in full paragraphs, we were not so sure. Then he went on to somewhat wreak havoc throughout his school life. And eventually find drugs and gangs and finally, prison.

My son is white. But I think he has some struggles that made it hard for him to survive and flourish in the world of academia and white bread success. When I think of his struggles, I cannot help but think of the black mothers who  have seen their children be killed. I do not pretend to understand the pain and fear of this phenomenon. But I continue to wonder at the repetitive aspect of this particular type of murder.

Philando Castile.

So marathoning seems a little ridiculous in the face of social injustice and racism. But what it provides is this:
A chance to test limits
A dance with the body and the mind
A glance at the impossible and improbable
A prance with all the other fools who choose to do this crazy race
A look askance at those who judge

I ran early this morning at the beach. It is day 2 of summer. The mist and fog sort of clung to the river feeding the beach. The sun was rising and painting the ocean pink. My dog was fucking crazed to chase the birds. My heart was pounding regularly at a rate of 143 bpm. My resting pulse is about 51. I ran along the sand thinking "will I ever be fast again?"

I think the answer is yes. I may need to lose my prednisone pounds. I certainly have some work to put  in:
fartleks
tempo
repeats on the track
core work

But mostly it comes down to the mind. My son, in his recent letter from prison, said "I need to focus on the present. That's the only way I'm going to make it through this."

Be here now.

Recognize the struggles of those in your community.

Understand life is precious, limited and all in all, sort of hilarious.

Never stop fighting for what is right.

Black Lives Matter.







Saturday, June 3, 2017

Sorry, Not Sorry


Caldera Retreat Center, Oregon, Blue Lake

I ran and wrote with 30+ other women in the wilds of Oregon, near a caldera lake that reflected all the trees and sky into its impossibly deep self, near a rushing stream insistent and serene and rapid all at once.

Caldera derives from the latin caldarium or caldaria, meaning a room for taking hot baths, or maybe a cooking pot. When magma erupts from a volcano especially rapidly, the support crumbles and a big depression forms, kind of a sinkhole. Complete collapse leads to stunning, almost mystical bodies of water. This particular body of water was decidedly not hot. Some of my retreat-mates did skinny dip one early morning in it, and I suspect their screams were heard in California.

Lauren Fleshman led us in running. She is wise and kind and funny and multitalented. One workout we did was "the predator", involving 2 minute fartleks back and forth on a dirt road at noon, wherein you found the last place you stopped a fartlek for the next one and changed directions. Thus someone was always being chased or chasing someone else. We started with warm up exercises to wake up the body and fast twitch muscles. We were hands on the dirt road, knees in the dust and when running dust kicked up and clung to legs, leaving a dirt tan at the end of the day. "Oh yeah, you will get dirty during this workout. Sorry-not sorry", said Lauren.

"Not sorry" came up as a theme, as women tend to apologize a lot. Notice this next time you are with a woman. Especially younger women. I see myself doing it less as I age, and my geriatric patients almost never at all, but almost never means there are still apologies, mainly for bothering me about something that ails them (what exactly am I there for as a doctor other than that?).

Marianne Elliott led us in writing. With her lilting New Zealand accent, she helped is to write wild and true. She is unassuming and inspiring, an advocate for human rights, a powerful presence. Plus she runs well. Lauren writes well. In fact, all of the women at this retreat, from all over America and the world, run and write with passion.

That is about all I can say about the retreat, because it was sacred. And although that may sound hippy-dippy, you will just have to accept it as fact. Sorry, not sorry.

One thing was this woodpecker. I was planning on meditating on the deck of the A frame where I was staying, early one morning, coffee cup near at hand and the light settling on me from the east, rising through the bent pines so gently. "Tap, tap, tap." I am instantly distracted. Opening my eyes I look to my right and there on a log is Woody the woodpecker. I decided that day to meditate on the red-headed woodpecker. He-she had this attitude which was frankly hilarious. So sure about where it was knocking on the log, first one place, then another, then over to this tree, then back to the log. At one point a squirrel was running up near Woody and he-she puffed out breast and feathers and raised wings to look threatening. Squirrel retreated. Sorry, not sorry, but this log grub or whatever it is that is worth pecking at bark for existence, is MINE.

Another thing was a 10 mile trail run. Now I run trails regularly, living in a rural place with endless running loveliness. But on my 10 mile trail run I fell three times. It wasn't like a slow motion "oh-I am fallliinnnggg" sort of thing. I just found myself face in dirt thrice, no warning. It was a metaphorical bonanza, the falling and getting back up, the falling and not giving up the run, the falling and licking dirt like it was humble pie. I was a bloody mess by the end, but Lauren patched me up and I added another thing to my bucket list (check-being administered first aid after a trail run by Lauren Fleshman). I figured out with Lauren's help that it was the polarized sunglasses, which I never wear at home on trails, as I run in the shadows of redwood giants. My eyes, not the best at baseline anyway (having been offered corneal transplants which I declined, sorry eye doctor, not sorry), could not discern root from rock from shadow.

Beneath her feet
Undulating roots
Rocks squat cowardly in shadows, then
Rise up and grab from
Beneath her feet
Separated as they are from trail
With an inch of rubber
Shoes made for gripping
Beneath her feet
Are also apparently made for flying
Then falling so
For a period of time there is nothing
Beneath her feet
Which normally carry her with confidence
So her eyes can gaze
At prehistoric monster-leafed plants and not focus on what's
Beneath her feet
Which love the unpredictability
Which trail offers over boring road
And at least the landing is soft
Beneath her feet
Soft, iron-tasting dirt
Mixing with iron-tasting blood
Where she leaves a bit of herself
Beneath her feet

There is so much to be learned from falling and failing and flailing, all of which I feel an expert. Recently, like in the last week,  Donald Trump's lawyer threatened to sue Berkeley Breathed. He was making fun of Trump, I suppose. A couple of things ran through my mind as I saw Breathed's response, which was to promise to cease and desist because he would rather not be sued by a rich and powerful asshole (side comment-I have respect for the presidency, but I just cannot cannot cannot respect the current president in any way, shape or form, sorry, not sorry). The things I thought were: DO NOT BE SORRY, MR BREATHED! People have been making fun of presidents since the beginning of presidents and we live in the United States of America, where freedom to criticize is one of our rights. I also thought, hmmmm, can this guy not take a joke? Can he not be humble? Can he not find himself face in the dirt and get up and dust himself off and continue on the crazy-assed road he calls his life? Finally, I thought, no he cannot. And he is teaching our children the following: admitting failure is for losers, you do not have to strive for excellence to do one of the most important jobs in our country, and a nerdy cartoonist with a penguin fetish is scary to the leader of the free world.

It was good to retreat, but I am back now, and I am not apologetic for my indignation about the U.S. withdrawal from the Paris Climate Pact. Whether or not you care about the beauty of the Earth or the right of its citizens not to find themselves under water or scorching to death due to climate change, it seems we could all agree that the end of life on our planet is a pretty grim prospect, and certainly not an economic advantage to anyone involved. I am not apologetic about my slowish running pace, because I have a disease with shitty drugs that have altered my body. Good news on that front, as a new potentially miraculous (ha ha , as a doctor that is pure folly, but as a patient one can hope) drug for my condition was recently FDA approved, and prescribed for me. I am currently wrestling with insurance to get the elixir to my hot little paws. My indignation about recent healthcare proposals is personal and political. My elder patients and my child with a pre-existing condition and my own little self is bound to be screwed by the overhaul being proposed by the Republicans. I do not apologize about my indignation, because I have been in the trenches and I am telling you now, whether or not you believe poor people and sick people have a right to have a chance at health, we can all agree that economically it would serve us better to care for everyone equitably so not so many dollars bleed onto the floors of our over-burdened emergency rooms and hospitals. Because we all pay for those under and uninsured folks in our own premiums.

It was good to retreat, but I am present. I am armed with some workouts to spark my speed engine, which has been sitting rusting in the corner of my proverbial garage for quite some time. I am present to my need for daily time in nature and meditation and woodpecker gazing and music and sitting and talking with wise and gorgeous people. Like my artist and philosopher friends of 28 years who came to visit this week and filled my heart and mind and funny bone to the brim with gratitude.

It was good to retreat, but I am not sorry to be nearly back to my daily routine. I do so love life, and though the pain is intense with illness, a son in prison, and a megalomaniac in the White House, I found in retreat that a falling down, a deep depression from hot magma boiling away all the supports can lead to a indentation that fills with the clearest water that reflects all the goodness around it and invites stillness, awe and abandon.

Naked abandon. Sexy? Nope. Sorry, not sorry.








Tuesday, May 23, 2017

So There

I was feeling sorry for myself today, as I often do. I was running on a sunny day along the coast of California and feeling sorry for myself. True, I am fat, slow, injured and have a crappy autoimmune disease. But there were foxy digitalis plants and lilies abloom, the ocean was roaring, the sun was out, it was the perfect temperature and I was running. Not fast, but running. I passed a guy with what I think might have been cerebral palsy, walking awkwardly with his walker. I immediately checked my self pity. Not that he needs me to pity him, because he was just out for a walk on a beautiful day. He would likely not give two fucks about my self image. Slow. Fat. Injured. Sick. Wounded.

I received a letter from my son today, who is at, as he described, the "lovely San Quentin." Now as a Mom I have superpowers and though his letter was all light and airy and "It is all good", I sensed fear between the lines. Good, you say? Well, think what you must, but he is my baby boy. And his little tour through the for profit system of California prisons is costing us all a pretty penny. Ah, if only his parents had been better....

Back to running for a moment, I want the world to know I am going for 4 trail runs this weekend with  Lauren Fleshman. She will, obviously, be toning down her prowess several million notches. But there is this retreat I am headed for that she is helping with, bless her, and it also involves writing. And yoga. And some stand up paddle boarding if I am brave enough to don a swimsuit.

I took some extra work in recent days to help with some bills and found myself in an almost mystical place. No, hear me out. I randomly chose 10 days to be on call and found myself exactly where someone needed me to be at the end of their life. Someone I never met before. But with whom I immediately connected. Someone who needed me to sit and listen and respond and act. In return, I was reminded why I do what I do. Because sometimes it is hard to show up day after day with little accolades, less awards, and no acclaim. I run with the same results. I play piano with the same results. I parent with the same results. But ultimately, it comes down to moments in time that are so perfect that everything else just falls away. A deep instant connection with an ailing fellow person. The smell of the top of your child's head. The feel of your quads pushing against the earth on a perfect northern California afternoon, lupine at the trail side, salt in the air, waves roaring, and a good book playing through your sweat-resistant ear buds.

This past weekend I heard our local symphony play Beethoven's 9th. I admit, I attended with a slight trepidation. It is a very, very enormous piece. They nailed it.  Not perfect, because that would just be creepy, but it rose above all expectations and planted a Beethovenesque kiss square on my brain and heart and musical ear. Carol Jacobson is a marvel.

Humility is growing on me. As a music major, once I left music as a profession I stopped playing it altogether for years, because I was afraid of mediocrity. Now I am thankful I can play at all. As a runner, I am embarrassed by my recent slowness and lack of ability to race, but then again am thankful I am able to be so mobile in such a lovely setting. As a doctor, I sometimes wish I had more credentials, had gone for those fellowships, had stayed in academics, and was considered great at what I do. But today I was just so touched to be at the bedside of a dying person who actually dreamt about me the night before we set his treatment plan, and who is now comfortable and dignified. As a parent, I wish my kids were all on their way to Nobel prizes in terrificness. But wait, I do not. My children are who they are and the one thing I have to offer is unconditional love. And the smell of the top of their head? It makes me swoon, even now.

This weekend, I am going for 4 runs with Lauren Fleshman. So there.




Wednesday, May 10, 2017

What to Hope For

As I was flying home tonight on my E-bike, listening to The Last Season, I was struck by a statement the author made about the subject of this biography and adventure story. It went something like this: "Randy (the hero of our story) was who he was because of his father."

Now it is true that Randy grew up in the Yosemite Valley with a father who loved the outdoors and had him scaling peaks at age 8 and identifying wildflowers and developing environmental ethics before he was old enough to drive, kiss a girl or accurately aim his piss in the pot. And Randy grew up to be an expert mountain wilderness Ranger.

"Randy is who he was because of his father"--This might be absolutely true, but it could also be the College Logic 101 Course fallacy in reasoning: just because A and B occur together does not mean A caused B. Was Randy a typical 8 year old, lying on his belly marveling at the wildflowers on the top of a 15,000 foot peak that he just struggled to climb?  I do not think so. I have known and raised a few 8 year olds, and a hike up a 15K mountain is not the way to bring out curiosity in wildflowers. That kid was clearly primed from the get go to want to do this, to want to love this, to want to be obsessed with this.

So I would say Randy became who he was because Randy was who he was. And I think his father probably just opened that particular door in his mind, through sheer, dumb luck (as Professor McGonagall would say after Harry Potter et al defeated a "fully grown mountain troll" in the girl's restroom).


It is on my mind as my son was sentenced to 13 years in prison the past week. Now I know for some, this will be "what he deserves." After all, he was addicted to drugs and committed a crime. Thankfully, no one ended up being hurt in the crime. Sadly, our DA sees it fitting to make an example of my boy, still so young, having recently celebrated his 19th birthday while in jail awaiting sentencing.

So as a parent what is it you hope for? Is it that your child will be in a wildly successful profession, making lots of money and providing you with beautiful and even more talented grandchildren? Is it that your child wins the science fair? Or runs faster than everyone? Or scores the most points? Or goes to the most prestigious college?

I have wished for all of these things, to be honest, even if just for a few fleeting moments before I came to my senses. I am, after all, the most type A person in my family and pretty competitive.

We as parents, do we "make our children who they are" like the author of the book I am listening to while risking my life on Highway 101 commuting home from work on my E-bike, which, by the way can do 28 miles per hour in a headwind, suggests?

My son would be the first to say no to this. He has expressed to us his love and sadness about choices. I am not so sure though, I just keep trying to think about the "what-ifs" and the "if-onlys".

A couple of things about at risk boys in American society I have observed:
-I am all for girls' rights and empowerment, but I think our boys are being disempowered.
-Boy are expected, in our town, to be tough, or stoners or thugs. If you are smart, you are not looked up to by your peers.
-I do not think this is unique to our town.
-If you are restless, bright and impulsive as a young boy in elementary school, you are pretty screwed, because schools want you to act like a good "girl"--sit quietly, speak when asked to, do not fight or or do things that make people uncomfortable.
-Not sitting still as a boy does not equal attention deficit disorder.
-We need a more flexible education system to tend to the needs of our boys and young men.

So what do you hope for when your beloved child is heading into the system of the American penitentiary? We have been given advice for him about how he should act, how he should "bulk up" to look tough, how he should avoid stockpiling commissary, how he should not reveal too much of his story to anyone.

I don't know. I am just thinking I should keep telling him the same thing I have been trying to tell him for his whole life. Which is have compassion, know you are loved, and do not give up.

Now about girls, I am one and have 2 daughters. There are, of course, many struggles. You have to look a certain way, be compliant and "good", and perform 10 times better than your male counterparts with the real likelihood of getting paid way less in your professional life. So my treatise on the empowerment of boys is not to discount our girls.

Which comes to my final point. Our very survival depends on holding each other up, not cutting each other down. Will putting my son in jail till age 30 make life better for anyone? What will it be like for him when he comes out? Do people addicted to drugs need to be put out of sight? Do we hate each other that much? Do we think that success in life is about money or fame or academic prowess?

Or do we actually know, deep down, that we want each other to be whole and well? I would say yes, even though so much evidence to the contrary exists in our daily news stream and in the very sad case of my young son. I think we are built for compassion. I think we are built to maintain community.

I just think we have a long way to go in putting this into action.

I hope for healing for my community, for my family and really for our country which seems just a tad off course. I do not actually think my own son is more of a danger to society than our current president.

Agree or not, there it is. I was taught to look at my fellow beings with compassion, by my parents. And so, am I what I am because of my parents or did they just happen to open a door for me in my mind and heart?

Try not to run over me on Highway 101. Hug your kids. Ask them to be compassionate and kind and to treat themselves with respect and love. And everything else? Just icing on the cake.

Monday, May 1, 2017

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Carson McCullers wrote Southern Gothic.


She wrote about lonely people. About passion arising in the hearts of those who are not destined for greatness, at least not obviously so.

I sit amidst people who are seeking notice. That is to say, I trained at a university that prides itself on greatness. I work with doctors, who wish for great things in themselves and want to leave a legacy. I run in a town where people are really fast runners and athletes extraordinaire. I play piano among champions. I cook among chefs. I parent among parents of brilliant children who go on to do good in the world.

As a woman, nary a day goes by where a patient does not comment on my looks. Now I would like to say I am sure my male colleagues get the same treatment, but I can pretty assuredly say they are not called by their first name and called cute on a daily basis. Nor has their weight gain, hair loss or choice in clothes likely been commented upon regularly.

Science shows, by the way, that women doctors are generally better for your health. No matter what they look like.

It has been awhile since I commented on running. This is, after all, a blog about running, predominantly. That too has been a source of dis-ease lately. I used to be fast, now I am not. I used to be fast, now I am not. I used to be fast, now I am not.

Still, a few things have conspired against speed lately. For instance, I have been on medicines that suppress my immune system, cause weight gain and generally make me feel terrible. Also, I have a son in jail, soon to go to prison which makes me feel terrible. Also, I work a lot. And though this seemed fine at age 30 and even 40, now it just wears me out.

But the positives still abound. I am currently reading The Book of Joy, which chronicles conversations between the Dalai Lama and Bishop Desmond Tutu. It is hard to synopsize, but if I had to I would say: Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

Another positive is I ran 10 miles on the beach this weekend with my dog. Now, as a marathoner this seems trivial, but I have been injured and sick lately, so it is kind of  big deal. My dog was ecstatic, my body was OK and my soul rejoiced.


Positively good includes my daughters who approach life wth interest and humor. Positively good includes the science march in my community that drew a couple of thousand people. I live in a very small town. We care, and we march.

In The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, a young girl loved Beethoven. A black doctor never wavered in his care for the suffering in his southern town. A diner owner, recently widowed, paid attention to everyone he came across. A deaf mute was the person everyone turned to for solace. His ending-maybe not so good, but I will not ruin the ending for those who have not yet had the pleasure of reading her book.

On my 10 mile run, I meditated on the waves crashing at my side. I watched my dog trot by me and chase after gulls. I marveled at the way the beach fog clung to the sand, with a misty, eerie presence. I looked for whales but none were seen. I imagined surfing, oh man it has been too long. I nursed a sore leg and I felt my strong lungs.

I kept thinking about my son, who is lost. If you are a parent, you know how devastating that is. If you are not, just imagine the worst thing you can possibly picture and magnify it by infinity.

The heart never ceases to look for joy, for solace, for love. Today is May Day and my husband of 25 years left me a basket full of fresh picked flowers. In them I bask. In him I heal.

I might be old, slow and a woman, but so help me God, I am not done yet. And my heart is not even a little lonely.




Thursday, March 23, 2017

Dogs, Sons, Perfection


It is some kind of national puppy day today. In our house, every day is puppy day. We:
1) make food for our dogs which involves beef, because store-bought food is kind of sketchy
2) put up wth dogs who choose to shit in the hallway instead of outside
3) allow certain dogs bed access
4) just love them so much, unconditionally

Awhile ago,  OK over a year ago, Buster died. He was a Border Collie who loved to run, who herded stones and who could probably outdo Donald Trump in an IQ test.




We have Miles, Zoe and Shasta now. Miles is addicted to running. Since I could find no support groups for Standard Poodles with Running Addiction, I just decided to run with him on a regular basis.


Zoe is old but spry. She does not enjoy exercise. She does enjoy leisurely walks and food.



Shasta has dementia, cataracts and a strong desire to eat. She is old, beautiful and annoying.


Dogs are relegated to pet status. That is, they serve our needs, and we try to make them happy and responsive to our needs. The question that arises for me is why are dogs our minions? Should they be expected to be obedient, unobtrusive. protective, happy to be on leash and polite in the human sense?


I am not sure anymore. I do think that it is nice that they don't kill us, because they could, with those teeth and that strength. But I no longer buy into the idea that they are supposed to be perfect. Dogs are alive, fairly smart except when they are not (and the same could be said for humans), they want a relationship with us and they are not privy to our fickle sense of polite.

As for me, I am glad to be greeted with unequivocal delight when I come home from work, and I appreciate the love of outdoors and running. Also, the dog spine pressed against mine at night is reassuring.

As for sons? Mine is in jail. But let me tell you this: He is not bad. We have decided, as a society, that good equals academic prowess, or athletic prowess or financial prowess. Just look at our current President. He is a billionaire, so we elected him. My son, behind bars, has more smarts than he does, and more compassion. But my son was:
1) adopted
2) bipolar
3) addicted

So, he was written off as less than. Less than Donald Trump, who has demonstrated that being smart, compassionate and self-aware is not a prerequisite to being the leader of the "free world." But we are not really free anymore. If you are Mexican: screw you. If you are from a country on the Muslim travel ban: screw you. If you are poor: screw you. If you are a woman: screw you, literally. If you are a dog? Well, I do not know Trump's stance on dogs, except to say he does not have one and that might be a sign. Dogs smell bullshit from a block away. Trump is mean, uneducated and rich. Dogs prefer nice, well-read and not so rich that they cannot stand some beach sand in the back seat of their car.

I might be biased, as my dogs are especially cool.

Back to my son: our local website (Lost Coast Outpost) that publishes instant news about criminals and local news has declared my son is evil and my husband and I inept. Here is what I have to say:
My son is beautiful.
Drug addiction is harsh.
Mental illness is real.
My husband and I try our best, and have two other kids who are highly successful.
We do not care what you think.
But why do you? And why are you so mean?

Happy National Puppy Day. If you have a dog, remember they are beings who deserve respect apart from us, who have an existence we cannot fathom and who could literally rip our throats out at any second, but choose not to.

Happy Parenting. If you have a child, young or grown, remember they are beings all onto themselves. They try their best, they are struggling to find their place in the world, and academic and athletic prowess is nice but certainly not the be-all, end-all of success. Success is that they go into the world with humility, respect, kindness and hope.

I am an expert. I have kids, dogs, patients and a chronic illness. I love my kids, love my dogs, accept my imperfect body, and continue to get out of bed every day. Yet, I am not an expert, because I never know for sure what I am doing is right. I just want to express love, respect, and hope.

My final piece of advice is this: Trust Beethoven. That guy was deaf but still wrote the best music ever.  He could hear with his soul, and he loved macaroni and cheese. What else do you need to know?



Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Hashtag No Excuses



As a music major, a hashtag is always a sharp. Not a sharp in the sense of the medical world.




Rather, a sharp indicating a half step higher than the usual note in music.

A double sharp is an X. Meaning two half steps higher on the musical scale than usual, at least in music. In medicine, it is a chromosome associated with females. In movie ratings it means--ick. In sports, like the X-games, it means you are doing a sport which is potentially life-threatening by its very nature.

But I digress before I even begin.

What is on my mind today is not quitting. Not quitting life, not quitting parenting, not quitting running, not quitting music, not quitting hope, not quitting trying, not quitting trying to plant a vegetable garden even though the Redwoods blot out the sun, not quitting checking the microwave to see if Obama is in there somewhere and planning to rescue us anytime soon.




I watch a lot of people struggle in their daily life and try my best to offer some advice on healing. I watched people in Guatemala on my recent trip there, where I was part of a group fitting paralyzed people, mostly children, with wheelchairs, and I saw their struggle and also the mundanity of that struggle. Struggle does not belong to others. Struggle is the human condition. My kid and I learned to fit these people to wheelchairs which reduced the need for their family members to carry them everywhere. Carry them everywhere. Consider that. Like this 14 year old guy with Muscular Dystrophy.

My kid and someone else's kid, Guatemala, 2/2017

Why not give up? In Guatemala, we met a woman who walks a marathon twice weekly to go to the "laundromat" with her family's clothes, which basically is a cement tub that she scoops water into, sort of like taking the clothes to the river, but in the hills, where the Mayan people (who are > 60% of the population, mind you) were pushed, there is no river or water.

The "Laundromat", Guatemala, 2/2017

What compels her to keep this up? I mean she is not getting any race medals or swag. I assume her family appreciates it, but in my experience as a mother, there is not a whole lot of verbal gratitude for doing the scut work of parenting life.

I like to look for examples of geriatric acts of athletic stupendousness. Like this 65 yo sub 6 minute miler. Or like the Iron Nun:



It helps me shift my perspective of the possible. It helps me feel less sorry for myself. It helps me see there are not a lot of great excuses.

This is not to say we should all be doing Iron Man level athletics, or X-Games level daring, or even walking a marathon to do our laundry. Would it not be nice to have a way to do laundry closer to home? But greed begets struggle, and therein lies the rub. It is a First World problem to need to create struggle (Iron Man Triathlons, marathons, going to the gym, and all that excellent stuff). It will be interesting to watch the next 4 years unfold, as struggle for basics becomes more of a reality for many Americans. For the record, by the way, I met no "bad hombres" in Central America. But man, they drive like crazy people. Way worse than even Californians

Why do we create struggle? I defer to my philosophy gurus to answer this, but ultimately I think we need to feel connected to each other (which is a struggle), connected to our bodies (ouch), connected to a higher purpose (what does it all mean?????) and recently, connected to our electronic devices. I cannot count how may times my watch has told me to "Move!" It is disconcerting, honest and fairly hilarious.

Last night, after work, despite my excuses:
-fat
-tired
-on call 24/7
-worried constantly about my kids and patients
-a horrible parent, I feel
-gas tank almost empty: in my car and in my body

Despite all those valid issues, I drove north and ran some hilly, sandy, rocky, heart-shattering beautiful terrain.

Trinidad, March 2017

I ran. Not away, but to, not in struggle, but in gratitude, not unaware but awake.

#noexcuses

Twitter is ridiculous and kind of fun. I am trying to picture the Guatemalan laundromat women posting on twitter.

Marathon and laundry! In my skirt! Take that, gringo gym rat. #no excuses

Struggle on. It is what we do, us humans.