Ready Ready Ready to Run

Yesterday I was in a MOOD. The usual suspects saw/heard my moody tone early on in the day and attempted to make life better.  But I had chosen to be ornery and no funny video or song on the voicemail was going to change my mind.

I got into Bleu after work, where I was far from productive, and called my Physical Therapist (PT).

"Hey, Kas. Are you calling to reschedule on me for tomorrow?"
"No! I need to talk to you."
"Well, its a good thing you called and I answered then."  He normally would have gotten a laugh out of me for that but I was on a mission and could not be thrown with his charm today.  His charm gets me to do all sorts of things I would normally refuse, like go up and down one step for 12 minutes to show him I can keep my shoulders back and not add pressure to my lower back because I'm lifting my legs properly.
"I need you to tell me I can run."
"No, I'm sorry.  You can't run. Also, you hate running."
"I've got to move and today I need to run, please."
"No, I'm sorry.  You can't run Kasi. You have a fractured L2. No batting of the eyes or well timed gaze is going to get you running. I like men."
"Okay, let's say that you said I could run.  What would my parameters be?"
"I didn't say you could run."
"Let's say you did.  I need to run or punch someone and as the latter is not quite my style, let's have me run."
"I'd rather have you punch someone."
"Let's say you'd rather have me run."
"Okay, if you were to go running without my approval I would tell you to stay away from the downhill and wear your brace.  I'd also tell you to stop running every two minutes and walk three so that you could see if you've ruined all of the work we've done."
"Okay, that's all I needed."
"Kasi, are you going running?"
"Yes."
Heavy sighs and then a wish for me not to completely kill myself.

I got home, made a bit of a mess of my space simply because creating chaos when you feel a bit chaotic is logical to me.  Then I tied my shoes and hit the pavement.

Folks!! I ran and I ran and I ran!! I have never been a runner, I'd do 2-a-days at Bikram to avoid running even a quarter of a mile.  But there was something therapeutic about the rhythm of my shoes hitting the pavement. I turned on Murdoch (who still gets a child named for him) and ran.  I did stop once or twice to be sure I hadn't killed myself or done something that PT wouldn't be able to fix.  But I was just fine.  My body knew it needed to get out. So Murdoch and I made our way through the fall trees, watched a beautiful sunset, smelling fall, and made it to institute (church mid-week class ~ it's a new thing I'm trying).  I was feeling excellent.  I had let go of the MOOD somewhere between mile 4 and 5 I think. Mile six had me beat but it felt so great to be in charge of my body, not letting it determine my sobriety or activity.

Also, God is funny. It was announced that class was on COMMUNICATION in relationships. Of course it was. I looked towards the heavens, laughed, and sent Boy a text indicating just how hilarious life can be. I was thrown a bit of a break when the teacher discussed the 96-97 Bulls vs. Jazz championship, won by the Bulls.

PT texted late last night.
"you dead?"
"Alive and well."
"you on meds?"
"No."
"are you sure you are not on meds?"
"Yes."
"did you run?"
"Yes! And I liked it."
"you are on drugs. i'll check in tomorrow."

But remember how I loved running yesterday? I just may do it again today.  I'm not in a mood.  But guys, I loved it.

Also, to add to that 'runners high' (which I thought was fake until yesterday), my D Rose is playing like a champ!! Diet (I love that all of you just pronounced his name wrong), Boy's boy,  and Good Man have indicated preseason is worth nothing but they are wrong.  Preseason is our vocal warm-up, it's our stretching ... it's vital.  It makes us happy. Tuesday night's regular season opener in Miami will increase my low blood pressure (thank you Gramps for that, its better than the lack of butt that comes from you as well) to be sure but cause my heart to soar with excitement as the two finest players in the league go head-to-head.

Also, I ran into Susan the other day at City Creek.  I'm certain it is because I haven't seen her since before Sherrie passed but there was a wave of relief that hit me as we spoke.  She reminded me of home.  She reminded me that the missionaries I love are out there, in third world countries, eating goat legs like its normal and more than happy with their Calling at current time.  It reminded me that people are kind and good, instinctively. It reminded me that people care for people, no matter how stubborn a person can be.  It reminded me that sometimes leaving work at 230 to meander City Creek is exactly what should be done.

Also, my parents come home in 54 sleeps.  Sister Bells will be home in 7 sleeps.  I'll be in CA in 8 sleeps, not running but rather facing life. Life is good, I'm a runner now.

Spitting and Sharing

Cowboy, Girlfriend, and I had a routine while we were together in that perfect land of Southern California. After a long school day, preschool can be rough!, we would hop into the truck, singing our made-up songs about our silly family, and end up at Laguna Beach.  I loved our habit for multiple reasons, not the least of which was the fact that it wore all of us out and made bedtime a bit easier.  We would play in the sand, roll up our pants and get chased by waves, throw the football around, and makeup stories about the passersby. Oftentimes I would let CA know that his job was the worst and invite him to join us, he usually did.  

One particular afternoon I was discussing the diggers we had seen earlier in the day with Cowboy while CA and Girlfriend were off discovering something.  Girlfriend had a bit of a crush on CA, as it was only natural for a 5 year old to think that the salt-and-peppery 28 year old was the cat's pajamas and he adored her so I let them have their moments as often as possible {positive male attention at a young age}.  I was discussing the color yellow or the hook on the digger when I looked up to see a look on CA's face that I didn't recognize, something had happened.  I looked to Girlfriend but she was walking away from both CA and I with an attitude in her strut.  CA made his way to me, his face unchanged.  He took a minute to distract Cowboy with something and then replayed what had happened.

He had brought a treat and given it to the kiddos.  He then asked Girlfriend for a bite.  She said no.  He asked again nicely and she once again refused.  He let it sit for a moment and then asked for a third time.  She then spit on him.  Yes, spit on him. She was five at the time, almost 12 year old Girlfriend is mortified every time this story comes up because she still has a bit of a crush on 'hot' CA, but she knew better than to spit on someone.  I was shocked.  I laughed a little bit but only because I had no idea how to appropriately respond.  I looked off to be sure the waves hadn't taken away Girlfriend, her tiny frame was standing with feet in the ocean, her itty-bitty body looked like it could have just been swallowed up the massive body of water she was wading in.  CA and I chatted for a moment about what to do, this is the phase of my life when I was learning that adults don't have all of the answers simply because they were the adults.  

I got up, leaving the guys to chat about diggers.  As I approached Girlfriend I saw her eyes, she was crying. She already knew she had done something she shouldn't have done.  With a quick look up to the heavens to Uncle for some help with his dramatic daughter, as disciplining this little one was my least favorite thing to do, I sat down a few feet away.  She took a minute to join me but once she sat down she cuddled in, we fit together pretty well.  The sun was going down on the other side of the water. I asked a few questions and ultimately the truth came out, she just didn't want to share with CA.  It didn't matter that he had shared with her.  It didn't matter that he had come to play with her at the beach.  It didn't matter that she saw him all of the time.  It didn't matter that he was cute.  It didn't matter that he was kind.  She just didn't want to share. And since she didn't have the words at 5 to convey that and why that was, she spit.

I get that.  Sharing is hard.  Sharing something that you have with someone is hard.  It's yours.  You are in charge of it.  You have control over it. Giving it to someone else leaves your hands empty.  

Over the years Girlfriend and I have had countless chats, normally its as we get ready for bed or she watches me curl my hair.  She shares more if we're not sitting at ice cream or talking on the phone, all eyes or ears on her. She shares feelings only if I ask the right questions and no one else is around. She'll give one word answers if she can.  If I make a face at those short responses she adds a smirky-smile or tries to distract me with a strand of hair that I missed. She'll talk about horses until she's blue in the face and she can tell me how Oliva, her BFF, feels about things.  But getting Girlfriend to talk about the 'good stuff' takes effort, patience, and the perfect situation.  

I get that.  Sometimes its just easier to spit in someone's face.  

But sharing is necessary and good.  Sharing your snacks with CA makes him smile.  Sharing your words with your favorite cousin makes her smile.  Sharing your life with someone who is trying to get to know you is, rumor has it, a great thing.  Girlfriend and I are learning. 

My People

First of all may I say ‘Welcome’ to the new readers of this blog.  I average somewhere between 130-145 in readership within 24 hours of posting, climbing to 210 before the post falls off of my radar.  This last post got 254 readers the first day with an additional 100 or so in the following three days.  Whoever you are, welcome to my thoughts.  And a notice: You’ll rarely see actual names or read incredible details of a particular situation.  CA refers to four different people.  Boy is actually a girl. Original Pete no longer exists as such as he grew up but there are several replacement Petes.  I once referred to one friend as Sir but he vetoed that, and as he is a longstanding friend who has seen me through thick and thin I allowed said veto, and so he became Doc.  But then Doc 2 came into my life and it was more fitting so Original Doc was retired and Doc 2, henceforth known as merely Doc, exists now.  Nicknames are mine to give at any given moment and mine to change on a whim.  Papa is my Dad. He’s the #1 reader of this blog but I doubt if even he can match all nicknames to actual humans or distinguish which CA is being discussed on any given day.  This blog is, selfishly, my place in the universe where I discuss what I want to.  So, come and go as you please but understand that I do not write to be controversial nor to be known. Kismet of me is a journal of sorts, a place where I can put down my thoughts and sort through my feelings. 

Second of all, I am protective and possessive.  I received a text Saturday last at an hour that was acceptable.  CA had just poured his heart out and was rejected.  I wanted to hop on a plane in that instant, back pain be darned, fix him breakfast and then go punch Rejecter in the face or key Rejecter’s car or somehow inflict on Rejecter the pain that CA was feeling in that moment multiplied by 100.  I have my people.  The number of people included in this group is not ridiculous.  It is maintainable.  I invest myself in these people, their hopes and prayers intertwine with my own.  I mourn their misfortunes with them.  And although I do not feel as some of them would like me to or fully comprehend the depth of befuddlement they find themselves in,  I believe merging that gap of emotion and understanding with appropriate Hallmarks, chocolates, movies, beer bread, or even bottles of wine.

I believe in my people.  I believe they can conquer their demons, take on the world, and speak to the hearts of those important to them.  They are the best of all of the humans I have ever known.  They deserve to be loved by the best of the other humans, none of those D-bags or emotionless girls {ha!}.  They deserve to be told often and in sincere tones that they are kind and generous, needed and valuable, stunning and sexy.  When they are not treated properly, the properly that I desire for them, I get frustrated. When they make a decision to alter their life for change sake rather than for good, I get frustrated.  When they do harm to themselves, physically or emotionally, I get frustrated.  And my patience is thin.  So there are times when, within this group of people I have deemed as my own, I will be at odds with someone.  I want them to see things as I see them, change their course to the course I see best and most appropriate.  But my words are often jumbled or unclear, my direction often off the mark somehow.

Stick with me. I sat Wednesday last in an Institute class, a spiritual seminary of sorts.  The teacher was the son of a man whom I admire and miss spending Wednesday mornings with in that House on the Hill in Logan, Vaughn J. Featherstone.  He, the son, is very much his father, so much to wisdom to share and never enough time to do it in.  This particular class was discussing intimacy in relationships.  At one point he asked of people’s versions of romance, quickly the class turned to a spotlight on couples who have made it through time together.  With a back aching and my anxieties flowing willy-nilly at this point I was tempted to get up and take an Anxious Annie moment outside, ucky-love stuff and I handling life on my terms. Instead I sat and listened, spelling First Love’s name in sign behind my back while taking deep breaths.  Soon the anxiety subsided and I could appreciate the conversation and thoughts of others.  He then discussed how valuable it is to share your thoughts and emotions, citing his own relationship with his sweet wife.  The subsided anxiety heightened once again.  Several comments were made about how you will feel directed when the time is right to do that.  My hand popped up. “I disagree, I’m always going to have to take a step in the dark when divulging bits of myself and becoming vulnerable in a relationship.” President Featherstone took a moment to process what I had said and then replied in a tone of sincere love, “I don’t think it’s always going to be so frightening.” His wife, who was standing near, met my eyes and shook her head.  Boy, sitting beside me, agreed with me in my circumstance. I was at a bit of a loss.

After class Sister Featherstone came and sat with a small group of us.  It was a sort of lab post the lecture.  She shared with us her love and kindness.  She looked in each of our eyes and told us that we were fantastic and worthwhile individuals.  She brought of my statement of fear and indicated that a step into the darkness with a knowledge of His love is sometimes necessary but that quickly, after that step is taken, light will come. This was my second occasion spending time with this woman, the first was in the House on the Hill in the city.  On both occasions she shared an acceptance and kindness that I can only compare to Sherrie or Papa.  She spoke simple words, without lots of adjectives or superfluous flattery.  She reminded us, four not quite young single gals, that we were on a path the He is happy with.  I was, because of her kindness and lack of judgment, willing to speak more about my fears.  She heard me.  I felt as if, with these short two encounters, I had become one of her people, cared for and loved.  And although I’m certain that she can be feisty and fierce when the situation calls for it, her love seems to be a calming and reassuring influence.  A love to buoy up those that she brings into her group of people.  One that I hope to one day master and give to my people.

As I work to that end I ask for a favor, patience with me.  I love my people, far from perfectly, but I do love them.