Latley I've been up this late searching the internet and pretending to do homework. Tonight I gave up all pretenses and decided to focus on matters more important to my emotional being.
Below you will find the poems I wrote after my first and second marathons. I never finished the poem for my third marathon since I was so focused on my Mile Marker Letter. Tomorrow night I'll work on finishing it up and posting it.
I also have a short blog about my upcoming run although I'm not positive when and where it will be. The new run started out as a family challenge that is slowly becoming something more. Trevor and I have even talked about undertaking the creating of a race since this one is specifically . . ah, I get ahead of myself.
Read on. Be warned that tonight was a reflection night. It was way past due . . .
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Poem I wrote after my second marathon
I run . . .
to watch the sun peak the mountains int eh morning as
the cold of night burns off in mists,
and the clouds of my uncertainty are lifted from my mind.
to experience the sound of birds in flight,
wind in the grass and leaves, subtle changes of the seasonsand my heart that take
my breath away with their beauty.
to hear my heart pumping,
feel teh pulsating of the blood in my veins,
vibrate with the hum of being alive.
because my girls see what true strengh and power are
while learning about dedication
and why "can't" is a bad word.
because I work all week at being a single mother,
a receptionsit, a cook, a pet trainer, a volunteer, a . . .
and for a short moment I'm just myself.
because I love hearing my girls yell, "That's MY mom!"
when they see me on the marathon course
and hear little feet pounding the pavement behind me.
in memory of my friend Michael
who taught me about becoming empty of bad to be filled up with good
before Leukemia took him away.
in memory of shawn who didn't make it to eleven
because there wasn't a treatment for Childhood Leukemia then,
but would have a fighting chance today.
in memory of who I was when I started my journey,
in celebration of who I am now because I had the courage to start,
and with hope for who I am transforming myself into.
because I am not promised a tomorrow.
As I started my run this morning
the sun began to rise over the mountains
and I realized again that today is all I have.
because Today is beautiful.
to watch the sun peak the mountains int eh morning as
the cold of night burns off in mists,
and the clouds of my uncertainty are lifted from my mind.
to experience the sound of birds in flight,
wind in the grass and leaves, subtle changes of the seasonsand my heart that take
my breath away with their beauty.
to hear my heart pumping,
feel teh pulsating of the blood in my veins,
vibrate with the hum of being alive.
because my girls see what true strengh and power are
while learning about dedication
and why "can't" is a bad word.
because I work all week at being a single mother,
a receptionsit, a cook, a pet trainer, a volunteer, a . . .
and for a short moment I'm just myself.
because I love hearing my girls yell, "That's MY mom!"
when they see me on the marathon course
and hear little feet pounding the pavement behind me.
in memory of my friend Michael
who taught me about becoming empty of bad to be filled up with good
before Leukemia took him away.
in memory of shawn who didn't make it to eleven
because there wasn't a treatment for Childhood Leukemia then,
but would have a fighting chance today.
in memory of who I was when I started my journey,
in celebration of who I am now because I had the courage to start,
and with hope for who I am transforming myself into.
because I am not promised a tomorrow.
As I started my run this morning
the sun began to rise over the mountains
and I realized again that today is all I have.
because Today is beautiful.
Poem I wrote after my first marathon
Pictures I couldn't take
October 2005
There are pictures I couldn't take
with a regular camera
while I ran my marathon.
There was no camera available to capture
the moment at mile 22
when I read the sign that read,
"You are one step closer to calling yourslef a marathoner"
and I choked,
and swallowed hard, hoping to push the tears back,
and realized that I had done it!
Six months of training,
of running,
of dragging myself out of bed in the morning,
and here I was, almost to the finish line!
I had done it!
I had taken all the frusteration of my divorce,
the heartache of not feeling up to par as a mother,
the overwhelming feeling of drowning and desiring to escape my life,
and I had run with it as my motivation;
my desire to take it all
and run until it was all gone, so I could walk home
knowing that I was empty,
ready to be filled up wth good now.
I couldn't find my camera to take a picture
of my teammates, my friends, who were running with me
seeing me break into tears, put their arms around me,
mistaking my tears of pride for ones of pain.
strangers slowing down to reassure me
we would all finish this together, offering to emotionally pull me along
so we could finish what we'd started for so many different, yet
individually powerful, reasons.
Noboody was around to catch me
as I walked the finish grounds
in my foil blanket, calling those
who I had leaned on when my strength was non-existent,
to let them know that I had come to realize that I too was strong
and no longer needed them to hold me up
because I had just proven to myself
and my world
that I was bigger then anything that will ever come my way!
My heart screams, "I have just run 26.2 miles!
There is nothing I can't do!"
and, no matter how hard I try,
I haven't been able to take a picture og myself
glowing with pride as I look in the mirror.
The morning after my marathon, I attached a few new labels to
the girls I see looking back:
Strong,
Courageous,
Athlete.
There are images that I wish I could physically hold in my hands,
but they were never meant to be seen by the eyes.
They were meant to be etched into the mind,
seen by the heart
to be there to remind myself when I forget
that I am strong,
I am courageous,
I am a finisher
beacuse, simply put,
I am a marathoner.
October 2005
There are pictures I couldn't take
with a regular camera
while I ran my marathon.
There was no camera available to capture
the moment at mile 22
when I read the sign that read,
"You are one step closer to calling yourslef a marathoner"
and I choked,
and swallowed hard, hoping to push the tears back,
and realized that I had done it!
Six months of training,
of running,
of dragging myself out of bed in the morning,
and here I was, almost to the finish line!
I had done it!
I had taken all the frusteration of my divorce,
the heartache of not feeling up to par as a mother,
the overwhelming feeling of drowning and desiring to escape my life,
and I had run with it as my motivation;
my desire to take it all
and run until it was all gone, so I could walk home
knowing that I was empty,
ready to be filled up wth good now.
I couldn't find my camera to take a picture
of my teammates, my friends, who were running with me
seeing me break into tears, put their arms around me,
mistaking my tears of pride for ones of pain.
strangers slowing down to reassure me
we would all finish this together, offering to emotionally pull me along
so we could finish what we'd started for so many different, yet
individually powerful, reasons.
Noboody was around to catch me
as I walked the finish grounds
in my foil blanket, calling those
who I had leaned on when my strength was non-existent,
to let them know that I had come to realize that I too was strong
and no longer needed them to hold me up
because I had just proven to myself
and my world
that I was bigger then anything that will ever come my way!
My heart screams, "I have just run 26.2 miles!
There is nothing I can't do!"
and, no matter how hard I try,
I haven't been able to take a picture og myself
glowing with pride as I look in the mirror.
The morning after my marathon, I attached a few new labels to
the girls I see looking back:
Strong,
Courageous,
Athlete.
There are images that I wish I could physically hold in my hands,
but they were never meant to be seen by the eyes.
They were meant to be etched into the mind,
seen by the heart
to be there to remind myself when I forget
that I am strong,
I am courageous,
I am a finisher
beacuse, simply put,
I am a marathoner.
New Type of Run
I'm used to running in honor, or memory, of people who have, or had, cancer. I've never really thought about the possibility of running in honor of myself. The reality of the situation is, I will soon be doing just that.
Sitting on the exam table with the doctor sitting on his rolling chair in front of me, my mind kind of blanks out when I hear the C word. I'm struggling not to cry and trying to understand the rest of the words that are coming from his mouth; I'm not too successful with either. I leave in a kind of numb and cold haze wondering how I'm going to call my husband to tell him what the doctor said . . .
. . . knowing I can't just tell him something like that over the phone . . .
. . . not wanting to tell him to his face since that will make it real.
How do I tell my girls?
Many sleepless and tearful nights I spend looking up information on the internet as Trevor and Riggins sleep. I make lists. Lists of questions to ask; lists of symptoms I have; lists of symptoms I don't have yet; lists of treatments; lists of more questions.
Slowly word of my condition starts to spread -- family, friends, co-workers, co-students. I tap into my continually growing resource of survivors for support, answers, and more questions to ask. My confidence is growing, and I once again find the deep calm I've come to know as peace with what is happening in my life. This is just another Mile 22 I must push through.
This will be a different type of run for me. I'm going to be running with many of the people I love, surrounded with the healing powers of love and hope. I'm looking forward to the new experience.
Sitting on the exam table with the doctor sitting on his rolling chair in front of me, my mind kind of blanks out when I hear the C word. I'm struggling not to cry and trying to understand the rest of the words that are coming from his mouth; I'm not too successful with either. I leave in a kind of numb and cold haze wondering how I'm going to call my husband to tell him what the doctor said . . .
. . . knowing I can't just tell him something like that over the phone . . .
. . . not wanting to tell him to his face since that will make it real.
How do I tell my girls?
Many sleepless and tearful nights I spend looking up information on the internet as Trevor and Riggins sleep. I make lists. Lists of questions to ask; lists of symptoms I have; lists of symptoms I don't have yet; lists of treatments; lists of more questions.
Slowly word of my condition starts to spread -- family, friends, co-workers, co-students. I tap into my continually growing resource of survivors for support, answers, and more questions to ask. My confidence is growing, and I once again find the deep calm I've come to know as peace with what is happening in my life. This is just another Mile 22 I must push through.
This will be a different type of run for me. I'm going to be running with many of the people I love, surrounded with the healing powers of love and hope. I'm looking forward to the new experience.
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