Oz

I ran at the beach yesterday morning, after waking up to being newly fifty years old, then sending my youngest child off to college. Dog in back seat of beach-mobile fully agreed with beach running plan and added layers of poodle snot to the windows. The fog was so thick when we arrived, we could just barely make out the waves. Well I could just barely make out the waves. Dog was so happy I think he tried to make out with the waves.

We ran north and about a mile in crossed a line in the sand and we were transported from Kansas to Oz. Stage left, a fog bow spanning the grey to the blue and touching the water in each world. Center stage along the shell-strewn road, a clarity that can only be had when one leaves the fog behind.

The sand was that perfect mix of soft and packed, making my Hokas feel like flubber and my dog spring around like a bunny rabbit out of hell. One great blue heron we see there sometimes (I assume it is the same one but we've never actually formally met, so...) gave us side-eye disdain. "That effin' poodle again" he/she said. Not knowing that Dog really just wants to cuddle. Or make heron soup. One of those.

Sir Strava was not invited to this party, nor has he been for awhile. Not that he did anything wrong. Though he is a pretty bossy jerk.  We just needed some time apart, some space to sort out our relationship.

























I might need that guy again right now. For one thing, I miss my Strava peeps. For another thing, I signed up for a 50 Kilometer trail race in October and I do sometimes wonder if I am REALLY putting in enough miles. Sure 3-4 hours running in the woods SEEMS like plenty. But what if I am actually running 1 mile per hour? Tomorrow is my 5 hour run day, and I am going to sweet talk Strava, the asshole, and ask him if he will go along.


After sending my youngest child off to college yesterday, and before climbing into beach-mobile with my maniac Dog, I sat in my very quiet house. It echoed with kid laughter and teenage snark. Before child left, I received two unsolicited, sincere hugs and my heart liquified into a sloppy mess on the kitchen floor and I keeled over and died happy. I then reincarnated as a fifty year old with an empty nest.

Later, I sat on a piano bench next to a world class pianist and played music in front of people. I mused as we musicked that at age 25 I never would've pictured myself here at age 50, sitting next to Daniela Mineva playing dances by Barber and Piazzolla. Come to think of it, I do not suppose at age 25 I could picture myself as 50, doing anything, anywhere.

Question: why does AARP kick in at age 50?

The other band (I like to think of myself as a "band") that played the concert last night ended up with a sing-along of "This Little Light of Mine". It was weird and goofy and I about cried as this is one of the songs I sang all three of my children at bedtime. No matter what else one does in this life, it always comes back to being tucked in at night or tucking in those you love. Herein lies the foundation on which love is built. Also, chocolate chip cookies, family car trips and all the extra call taken by a certain mother in order to pay for college for certain children.

Dog and I did eventually return to Kansas but I could not shake the Oz off my birth day. It was like I took a trip somewhere brilliant and came back changed. It would have seemed like a dream but there was all this magic sand packed into the tight curls of Dog, a gift of fairy dust from the Good Witch of the West Coast. Fog is temporary but magic beach sand will be found in one's bed for weeks to come.
I also put some of the bright light in my pocket and it is right there for me, illuminating whatever might come next.