I run not to get away, but to get through.
I run not to become out of breath, but to gain breath.
I run to be social and I run for solitude.
I run to connect and I run to disconnect.
I run not to avoid work, but to inspire work.
I run to feel empowered and I run to remind myself that I am still weak.
I run to meditate and I run to ruminate.
I run not to lose weight, but to gain balance.
I run because it is what I do.
Because I run, I can be who I am.
And that is why I run.
The beauty of a summer garden is found in its abundance. The welcoming sunshine and needed rain uniting to provide the ideal conditions for growth. Beds become a beautiful, riotous mess even under the watchful eyes of trained gardeners and hundreds of volunteers.
They refuse to follow the rules and color within the lines; instead their reach extends into walkways, obscuring the path.
The eye dances along the woven green tapestries formed by the intertwining stems. Their bold blooms fight for attention and resist being reigned in. These are not flowers to be controlled, to be clipped and tucked into proper arrangements. Rather, these are blossoms of pure, unbridled exuberance.
There are seasons in our lives that are like a summer garden. Times when our moments are filled with new ideas, new experiences, and new relationships. Celebrate the abundance in those seasons. Revel in the new growth. Don’t be concerned when your path is obscured. It will be revealed in time. Don’t worry that the garden bed of your life is becoming too full. There is time enough for pruning later. Do not fret if your mind’s eye has trouble settling on a single bloom. Rather, let it explore the interconnectedness of your sprouting life.
Stand tall among your summer blooms and enjoy the beauty of its abundance.
Dogs have a way of reminding us to embrace the moment. Thank you, Tiger, for the lesson:)
I’m not sure “healed” should be a word.
Heal? Yes. Healing? Absolutely. But, healed? Past tense. As in done. Finished. Over. Completed. Shut the door and turn the key.
I’m not so sure.
Some days I think I’m there, the wound healed over with no hint of a scar. But that’s just wishful thinking. A fallacy reveled when the wound opens from the slightest unintentionally targeted remark or interaction, triggering the pain and uncertainty associated with the initial cut. At least now I have practice. Practice feeling the pain and the fear. Recognizing its roots. Knowing what part of it is real and what is simply echoes of the past, ghosts that can cause no real harm. I have practice accepting the pain and practice letting it go. I speak its language.
It is said that practice makes perfect. Will perfect be when I am healed? Or will I achieve perfection in the cycle of feeling, accepting, and releasing? Most likely, perfection will remain elusive and I will have to settle for better:)
Maybe I will be healed when I accept that I will always be healing.
In a few days, my car will be 13 years old. It is strange how an inanimate object can be tied to so many memories and can act as a benchmark and barometer of life’s major events.
I bought my car, a 1999 Acura Integra, when I was 21 years old and 6 months shy of my wedding. I had just moved across the country to join my fiance, who had relocated several months earlier in order to find work. I felt like I was on the precipice of my adult life: I had moved away from my childhood city, I was soon to be married, and I was in the process of making major decisions about school and career.
We were excited to buy the car. We felt adult. We liked signing our names together on the note and on the title. We felt proud of our research and negotiating powers, paying only $300 over cost and we were able to put over half down. I called my mom, excited to tell her about the new purchase. As I described the leather seats, she moaned, “Oh, Lisa,” in a tone that would have been more at home if she had just found out I had gotten a large tattoo. I didn’t care; it was my car and I loved every inch of it.
It really was my car. My ex was a tall man, about 6’1″. A 2-door Integra wasn’t exactly a comfortable fit for him. We used his vehicle (which changed over the years) whenever we went someone together. My car remained mine and mine alone.
In the early months, she was often filled with unique finds to make our apartment feel more like a home. Soon after we married, we purchased a house that we immediately began to remodel. My car was never without a random tile, a leftover tub of spackle, or a paint sample strip as we worked to create our dream house.
When she wasn’t driving to Home Depot, she took me back and forth to school to get my B.S. and then later my master’s. She took me to small jobs as a receptionist and a physical therapy technician before I settled on becoming a teacher. Once my career was set, she had only to carry me 3 miles round trip each day to the middle school down the street.
Even though my ex was rarely in the car, he worked to make it better for me. He pulled off all of the interior of the doors to insert extra insulation to cut the road noise. He replaced the factory stereo with a hand-me-down of his and hard-wired in the XM radio. He took on the repeating task of washing the exterior and vacuuming the inside. He made his mark.
As my car began to age and my ex bought a new car, she began to be the choice transportation for the dogs. I also developed a passion for gardening, and I would frequently fill her to the brim on biannual trips to a local budget nursery. Her carpets still have stray leaves and embedded dog hairs; signs of a life left behind.
My car’s life changed after the divorce also. She had been protected in a garage up until that point. Now, she bears the hail scars and pollen stains of a life lived outside. With the addition of a GPS (a post-divorce gift from a friend), she has led me on adventures, traveling further than she ever had before (with the added security of a AAA card in deference to her advanced age). Her title has changed over the years: first my maiden name and my ex’s name, then my name changed to match his, and now, she is in my name alone. Her plates have changed, reflecting my move across town.
She no longer has the shiny unblemished exterior of her youth. Her leather seats now show cracks from where my legs rub against them (and where my tears fell for many months). Her trunk no longer opens and her antennae often sticks. But that hunk of steel, that has been with me through so much, still runs beautifully.
Today, she yet again carries a dog. I like to think that makes her smile.
So, happy birthday to my car and thank you for carrying me through the bad times and staying through the good.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 