serious runners are always ready to run

Physical therapy appointment today, and my usual PT was out of town. She set me up with another, a strapping young guy who is the running guru. She told me to bring shorts and running shoes, because she would have him watch me run to determine if I do something stupid (my words).

I follow directions most of the time.

This morning, I packed a set of running clothes, and due to a laundry back-up, had to choose between a tight tank or the super fancy technical shirt from the Amy Thompson 8K in Kansas City (a cool shirt and super comfortable, but covered with sponsorship tags and... Well, when you wear it, you might as well also begin every conversation with "HelloI'marunner."). Reasoning the tank would be too cold and too... boobalicious... I decided to look like I was trying too hard.

Fast forward, and I arrived at my PT appointment with my running clothes in a large plastic bag. I also brought my knee wrap. I excused myself to the bathroom to change, thinking, "I will be on top of it. I will change and be ready and not keep the strapping young PT waiting." I felt mildly stupid when I put on the race shirt. Plus, strapping young men always make me feel shy. Always. I am 36, but I am 12 when it comes to strapping young men.

Then I returned to the waiting room to sit in a chair in full running gear (complete with knee wrap), my work clothes inside the plastic bag I held on my lap.

I was not wearing sweat bands around my head or wrists, but I would like to go ahead and pretend that I was, because I think that makes it funnier.

Oh, I would also like to pretend that I was carrying the water bottle that straps to my hand and that it was full of Gatorade.

Strapping young PT fetched me from the waiting room. In the exam room area, he stretched my knee cap, talked to me about some stuff, checked my squat form, talked to me about some more stuff, taped my knee, and then I realized he was wrapping things up.

I said, "Weren't you going to watch me run?"

He looked confused. "No, we don't need to do that today."

I looked down at myself, my running shorts, my technical race shirt, running shoes complete with toe tag identification, [sweat bands and water bottle], knee wrap, knee tape, my real clothes in a plastic bag on the floor, and I started to laugh. "Did you think I was taking things just a little too seriously?"

He smiled and said it was easier to see my form when I squatted. [Let me translate that for you: "Yes. You are weird."]

I laughed all the way out of the office, through the parking lot, to my car, and to the grocery store, where I then exited my car -still in full running gear, now with knee tape- and paraded around the produce aisles as if I was just about to go run some serious miles just as soon as I bought up some pineapple and turnip greens.

This might be as nice as I get.

My character has some unsavory nuggets. I get really annoyed with adults who make stupid decisions [Translation: I am judgmental and want everyone to have the exact same values and sensibilities that I have. When they don't, I think they are morons.]. I hold onto irritations like I'm protecting a big red button to the universe. I would like to let go of these ugly tendencies for the sake of a sparkly soul and improved relationships.

To my favor, I also believe that every problem under the sun has a solution, and I'm pretty sure I can figure out what it is. So yesterday, I devised a strategy to fix my broken junk. Every time I entered my familiar irritation dialogue (Which usually starts with "Gah, jackass.") I would imagine a patient, stoic, teacherly sort saying, "Give that to me, please," as if I were a clumsy child with scissors.

This morning was Day 1 of the new "Be Nice" plan. I spent 85% of the morning hearing, "Give that to me, please.... Give that to me, please... Give that to me, please..." By 2:00, I hated the patient stoic teacher sort, told him to go eff himself, gathered all of my broken junk, held it to my chest, and decided, with some regret, that this might be as nice as I get.

a letter to God in the spirit of Hafiz

Dear God,

Thank you for loving me enough to beat the shit out of me

When that's what it takes.

You're a benevolent badass

With a fiercely loving left hook.

Humbly,

Patresa

[in the spirit of Hafiz]

obedient to benevolent forces

Revisiting old journal entries here, I have settled into March of 2008 sitting alone on a hotel balcony in Litchfield Beach, South Carolina. I was on walkabout, something I do (did) when everything in me sets to jitter (Oh, and it does. For the life of me, I cannot keep this roar at a hum for any lengthy extension. I don't know what part of me malfunctions; I only know it does.) I rented a car and drove south and west for 10 days.

I had a moment with a dead jellyfish that I thought was kind of important, and I think about it off and on. It was washed up in the sand like a gelatinous blob, really not so attractive when dead and motionless, tentacles not so much like cool dreadlocks when they're still. And I thought about many years before when I read an article about jellyfish in a Natural Geographic. I gave a presentation to my students at the juvenile detention center where I worked at the time. I used it as an example for how you can make your own curiosity, how everything is interesting and nothing is boring if you inventory its details. The jellyfish has no central nervous system, and yet it is one of the longest surviving species and most efficient predators in the ocean. How can something without a brain be so good at what it does?

I thought of this looking at the dead jellyfish. It was dead. It didn't give a crap that it was dead, because it never over-thought its life. It didn't sit around drinking coffee with its friends and bemoaning its watery existence. It didn't fret over what to do next. Didn't make plans. Didn't stare into mirrors all day long. Didn't get anxious. Didn't act out of selfishness or guile or wayward psychology. Didn't feel insecure or threatened or superior. It didn't evaluate anything or anyone. It just existed. It gave itself to the tide and to instinct, totally obedient to a bigger plan.

And I thought, "Good on you, Dead Jelly." That must be very peaceful.

Not that I want to be mindless. I just want to release and float and be obedient to benevolent forces and then sting crap with my tentacles, I guess.

my body wants a spinach omelette

Here is what I have to say about my gardening and that giant unfinished landscape project I started 2 months ago: Nothing has its space, everything is overgrown, and it's all completely out of control.

I will also say the same about my desk.

And the kitchen.

And the bedroom.

And my government issue windowless tan cubicle.

And my brain.

And the whole f*cking world.

My right knee is out of commission, marathon training stalled for another week or so while I rehab it. And I've been so ... angry about it. Are you kidding me? I felt like everything had finally clicked, and I knew what I was doing, and I felt really confident, and I slipped into my schedule and was committed and obedient. I had a plan! I'd even composed a motivational speech I recited to myself while I ran. It was brilliant! Plus, I just finished training for the 20K, and didn't have a single problem. Not one single issue. So, I thought, what the hell is the difference? Why now?

I also believe, as I may have said a time or 1600 before, that our bodies are geniuses and they talk to us. Every sprain and strain, every bump, scar, tumor, rash, ache, and every good thing, too, is a direct and important message--not just about things like, "Hey, stop huffing paint, Dumbass!" I really think it gives us messages about how we should be living, emotionally and psychically and how we should be treating the planet and each other.

I really do think that. And it makes me feel very reverent toward my physical form, like my mind and my spirit are being ushered around life by this very kind, very old, and very wise shaman woman who doesn't speak very good English.

Believe this as I do, when I get angry about my knee, I try to replace it with gratitude. Thank you, knee, for delivering this important message (now translate and shut the hell up). I've been trying to figure out what it's telling me. Last night my knee used English (via my massage therapist), and said, "Dear sweet, dense woman: Let go let go let go."

My knee is screwed up, because my quads are insanely tight and the IT Band on the side of my leg is irritated and pulling my knee junk out of alignment. I find this remarkable, because I stretch more than anyone else I know. And really good stretches, too. I stretch like a freakin' Olympian, I'm telling you. I could win contests!

Last night I went to my massage therapist, Kate, who is awesome and a healer who sometimes says f*ck in the middle of a massage, who chops her own wood, and roofs her own house, and who looked at my new bird tattoo a few weeks ago and said, "Hm. She is very composed. Look at how tightly she's holding her feathers." I told Kate I was having problems with my knee. She said, "It's not your knee, dear."

Kate was bending me into all kinds of funky stretches. Each time she held one of my limbs, she said, in her patient, smoker's voice, which is just as comfortable dropping f-bombs as it is talking chakras, "Let it go, please. Give this to me, please. Patresa, let it go, dear." And after each direction, I would think I was letting go, I would dip my hip, exhale, sag my shoulders, make a frowny face, whatever, and each time, she would say, "You're still working, dear. Give this to me, please. Let go, dear. Stop working. Release. Stretching doesn't work if you don't let go."

I stretch, but I don't let go. I don't let go, ever. I'm pretty sure I don't even relax in my sleep. I don't even move in my sleep. I wake up in the same damn position I held when I closed my eyes the night before. Every tissue in me is a guitar string about to snap; God save me if the winds pick up.

Which brings me back to everything that is completely out of control. It's only "out of control" because I'm trying to keep it "in control." You can't be out if there's no in, you know. I think I'm supposed to just let it be it, and for my part, be okay. That's what my knee says, anyway. And the clenched bundle I carry around in my left hip.

I don't know what my body has in mind, it's really become very particular over the past year--very insistent. It's like a woman who turns 50 and starts telling people exactly what she thinks and exactly what she wants. Or like I'm being prepped for a mission (scary). Over the past year, my digestive system has eliminated 3/4 of my previous diet, and now my muscles and tissues are demanding I free my fuzzy bunny soul. Basically, my body has become really insistent on purity and freedom.

Right now, my body is insisting on a spinach omelette and some more coffee. And even though my insecure mind wants to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts, I'm not going to. I'm not going to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts. You're just going to have to deal with it. Please. Please, just deal with it.

dogs wag cats meow winds howl knees ping

I don't know why I'm not writing. I'm just not.

I'm obsessed with running and nutrition and how all of my parts function. And I do not use the word "obsessed" lightly. But you know, I'm not really sure how anyone (anyone like me, rather, who is not a natural runner) runs a marathon without getting obsessed. I woke up this morning, and it was raining. My training calendar didn't give a crap about the rain. It still said 11 miles. So you know what I did? I'll tell you: I said, "Hey, P, those 11 miles aren't going to run themselves." And then I noted the lack of torrential downpour, noted the lack of lightning, noted the lack of hail, put on a hat, laced up, and ran. And it was good. I was strong this morning. My lungs and my heart feel like they could go forever. My knees, hips, and ankles... ehhh, not so much.

Two days ago, my knees and I had a meeting and decided to knock our training program down to the novice level instead of intermediate. We did not allow Pride to attend the meeting, because Pride is a huffy jackass who makes repeatedly bad decisions. I don't know why I thought I was an "intermediate" marathoner. Probably the same reason I think I am a novelist. (Oooh, ouch.)

I keep waiting for grand epiphanies to strike while I'm running, but they don't. Is there anything more exciting than an epiphany? Although it wasn't an epiphany, I do think running is fine-tuning my body barometer. I feel every ping in every place. I wish I did not feel all the pings in my knees, but I suppose they're telling me things I need to know--like, "Hey, P, your quads are puny little girl quads, and your stride sucks." I think my knees are actually much nicer than this. I'm paraphrasing. But the message has been noted, and I'll work on it.

This idea of knees and kneecaps and ankles and spleens telling me things I need to know has really helped with my mission to cure my gut disease, too. I know I've said this 1,000 times before, but I really believe our bodies communicate with us, almost like separate entities, and likely every answer to every question already exists, quite literally, in the crooks of our elbows. If you're of the belief that bodies are vehicles, soul transporters, or as I've written about in the past, "exploratory submersibles," then it's not too farfetched to think of them (bodies) as separate from our mind-thoughts.

It reminds me of this dream I had the other night. (And here is where I reveal more of my weirdness.) Sometimes, if i have a thing or two on my mind, before I go to sleep, I say something to the effect of, "Hey, please talk to me in my dreams tonight." The implied you in the sentence is up for interpretation: Sometimes I'm talking to God, sometimes to spirit guides, sometimes I keep it anonymous. At any rate, before I went to sleep a few nights ago, I asked, and then that night I had crazy weird, obscure dreams, about dogs and dinosaurs and houses being crushed.

I woke up thinking, "Hey, how about using your words next time?" It was not particularly clarifying. And most of the images and concepts in the dream I could trace back to conversations that had occurred that night, like someone talking about their kid liking dinosaurs. So it all just seemed sort of... blalkjdf;lkasjd;l fj.

But then, later I realized just because it isn't English doesn't invalidate the message. You know what I mean? Dogs wag, cats meow, wind howls, knees ping, stomachs churn, and dreams rearrange the images stored in your melon. I don't think dreams are intentionally obscure anymore than a dog is intentionally obscure. It's just how the thing works. It all means something. And I think maybe that's my umbrella obsession: figuring out what dogs and cats and wind and knees and dreams mean (and everything else)--because they all communicate something important.

Okay, that's it. Time for lunch.