Filling the Void with Awe

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.” ― John Muir

I haven't blogged in nearly a month.  And there was not a void in content, rather in finding time that took a few mountains to remedy.

As far as parenting goes, I know the ropes pretty well.  And while I provide for my daughters aptly with the basics: food, water, shelter, etc.  I feel obligated and honored to show them new things, beautiful things, and give them a deeper appreciation for the world.  I want to expose them to things that will help them find themselves inwardly by what they experience outside in nature.

I've taken my daughters to the ocean several times and the forests and lakes of Minnesota at a family cabin.  I've seen their eyes marvel at the orange and pink sunsets that trace sparkles dancing across the surface.  I've heard them giggle and splash in the green foamy waves that crash up the shoreline their faces sprinkled with white sand from building castles and digging holes, their cheeks and noses kissed a rosy red by the sun.

I've watched them catch wriggling fish in the center of a pristine lake and watch bald eagles leave their nests, returning with prey for their newborn babies.  I've picked berries in the forest with them, shoving handfuls in our mouths, the juices running down our chins.  We've sat under the stars, fireside and cuddling - pointing to the only show we cared to watch - the one that nature was giving us over our heads.

Giving the gift of new experiences in new places to two girls who live in the land locked Midwest has been one of the greatest opportunities of my life as their mother.  And the ocean, the water, the outdoors is a place of peace for me.  A place where I feel small and insignificant, a place where I can be overwhelmed.  A place where I can marvel at how the world can be something so completely perfectly beautiful...and knowing I am a part of that.

But it was time for a new adventure.

This last weekend Taylor and Cate were introduced to the mountains for the first time.  And as we drove from the airport seeing peaks seemingly small in the distance abruptly rising up all around us, they were in awe.  A new awe, one that marveled the carvings of the rocks, their complete and stark eruption from the ground, and the sweet smelling pines of Evergreen.  As we stood on a bridge at Evergreen Lake, all that rose around us was the magnificent mountains, large and looming, and full of green.  The awe from all the sounds of the animals who called this place home, and the bubbling creek that wove in and out of the park.  Their eyes were glued to the windows as we drove back down from Evergreen, winding through the streets, finally stopping for ice cream settling on a park bench beside a river.

The new awe that came with the bluest of skies and the ruddy majesty of the looming rock faces at Red Rocks rising around them.  How every view was better than the last and they felt like they were higher than they'd ever been but still not high at all.  It was an awe of perspective; a new one they've never had that can't be explained, it just has to be seen with the eyes that evokes a quiet realization that has no need for words.  An awe beyond expression but completely understood somehow, even in the consciousness of a six and an eleven year old.  It something they'll feel again in their lifetimes, often I hope, that gives a sudden and overwhelming feeling of peace and of being connected to something.  Its in our DNA as humans.

And it was such a short visit, more like a quiet introduction.  The trip was barely two days, not nearly enough time for them to discover more of the outdoors, to get their hands on the rock faces and explore this world that they never knew existed - a place they can miss and long to return to soon.  Because missing something  is a privilege.  It means that it matters and it might have even change us for the better.  And so the adventures for awe with my girls will continue... the search for someplace "new" that somehow feels like we've been waiting to find all along.  

26.2 for Martin

"I always loved running – it was something you could do by yourself and under your own power. You could go in any direction, fast or slow as you wanted, fighting the wind if you felt like it, seeking out new sights just on the strength of your feet and the courage of your lungs." -Jesse Owens

On April 21, 2013 I ran 26.2 miles for Martin Richard and his family. Admittedly, I had not been spending much time logging mileage, deferring more often to my CrossFit gym.   I had logged a grand total of 24 road miles in the whole of 2013 up to this point - 13 of them coming from a half marathon in March.   But when I heard my friend Frank Fumich was organizing a series of runs around the world to help raise money for this deserving family, he himself running three marathons back to back, something in me knew I had to help.  I decided after donating $26.20 to the cause, I would run in Nebraska and join more than 25 other locations worldwide in the effort.

Eight year old Martin Richard of Dorchester, MA died on April 15th waiting with his family at the Boston Marathon finish line. His mom and sister were also critically injured. His mother Denise, has had to undergo brain surgery. His six year old Sister, Jane, has lost a leg - her life was only saved by the heroic actions of bystanders. Bill, his father had to have several ball bearings removed from his leg. Martin's older brother, Henry, was not physically hurt in the blast... I can't imagine what they are facing now and what lies ahead.  It would be something I would think of often as I ran.

I was alone for the marathon - the time without contact was something that I learned was far more a challenge than the running.  Normally, there are other runners, people on the sidewalk at various points adding energy and encouragement.  But for the 4 hours and 22 minutes I spent outside, I was almost completely by myself.  Fueled by the knowledge that runners all over the world were joining me in marathons of their own, I kept moving.  It was a long afternoon and I hadn't trained for that long of a run since the fall of 2012.  My body protested.  At mile 19 I hit a short and fast wall and it was then that the rain began to fall.

I thought often of the Richard family, of the running community who was now doing what we knew how to do to support them.  I thought of my two daughters, safely home and how thankful I was for that fact and how precious and delicate this life truly is.  I thought of my grandfather who passed in January and the loss that is still deeply felt in his absence.  Turning the final corner and heading down the hill, the rain falling softly around me, I ended my 26.2 mile tribute.  There was no finish line, just my mother's driveway where I had mapped my run to end.  My only witness a neighbor bagging up grass clippings two doors down who gave me a friendly nod.

Standing there I was suddenly overcome and could do nothing but sit, face in my hands, and let the tears fall.   An unexpected emotional response to something that began and ended for a family I had never met and a little boy I'd only seen in photographs.  A family who had lost him far too soon, who were still themselves recovering from physical injuries, and had such a long way to go.  It made my run seem so insignificant and I only hope it helped raise more precious dollars for their future.  To date, over 1,000 miles have been run by hundreds of runners for this cause.  It's humbling to be part of such an incredible running network, a group of people who would rally and come together for a family so deserving in the darkest of days.

You can help too.  Beyond running the miles, please donate to the cause.  Just $26.20 to help out a family that is just at the beginning of a very long journey of healing.  Visit this link to learn more about the runners around the world takling part and, if you can, please donate.  http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/EnduranceTrust/westandunitedwerununited

Be Still

I'm always talking about moving.  Moving forward, moving on, moving past... but there are those moments when there is no moving.  There is almost no breath.  This week's tragic events at Boston was, for many of us, one of those times.

And this post isn't about what happened in Boston.  It's not political or religious.  It's not a commentary on the media or the press.

It's about what happened during and after for those of us who were witnesses from afar; not there in the fray. We watched the images unfold from a distance, the faces wrought with terror, friends and family's safety unknown, images flooding the screen with bloody streets, the helpless carted away, the cries of the frightened, confused, and hurt.  It's about the moments when we feel helpless.

I tell my girls as they come home from school to the images on the TV...This is one of those moments when what is seen can't be unseen.  It doesn't feel real and nothing seems as it should be.  We are shocked, horrified, unsure of where we are now and where we will be going.  We forget everything but what is happening in the right now... hundreds of miles away.

Silently, my daughter watched the screen and I could see her physically change.  Her shoulders dropped, her body withdrew inward, shrinking in response to the suffering, her eyes wet with tears of empathy, of fear, of disbelief.  And she had no words in response but a soft but incredulous, "Mom...why?"

And I didn't give her an answer then, because there isn't one that satisfies.  I took her hand, I pulled her close and I said instead, "Wait. Be still."

And we were. From our family room we saw runners who finished a marathon continue running - to hospitals to give blood.  We saw strangers helping strangers.  We saw first responders taking action and saving lives.  We saw humanity, in its darkest of hours rushing forth despite danger to give aid, to give comfort, to give hope.  We saw the strength of a city, the resolve of a running community mobilize and unite. We saw runners all over the country begin to plan immediately how they would offer assistance, how they would help, how they would honor and pay tribute.  We saw an outpouring of love and selflessness emerge from the shadow of the destruction.

And it didn't make what happened go away, but like a wall it rose up to meet the wave of horror and not let it break through.  The tragedy was met with strength, kindness, and conviction.

That Monday night as I tucked my girls into bed I said, "Taylor, are you afraid of what happened today?"

She paused, and I know that she was thinking hard before she answered.  She said, "A little.  But as bad as people can be to each other, there are always more that will do whatever they can to try to make it right or at least make it better.  It's what we do."

And that's the answer.  Time to move again.