Uncategorized

When Movies Attack and Other Oddities

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The first time I was attacked by a movie was in late 2006. We’d gone to see The Departed, and less than halfway through the show I had to leave the theater. I felt as though I was being physically assaulted by all of the violence on the screen (this is not an exaggeration) and found it impossible to watch the rest of the movie. Thankfully, my husband was unbothered by this and was content to watch the rest of the movie by himself. I went shopping to kill time and picked him up when it was over.

The next time it happened was in late 2008. This time we were watching The Dark Knight. Despite a deep loathing for superhero movies, I loved Batman Begins (especially the score) and was excited to see the next installment. About halfway through, I again felt like I was being assaulted by the movie and had to leave the theater. This time instead of going shopping, I went back in after 10 minutes and watched the rest of the movie standing near the exit, plugging my ears/closing my eyes during the very loud and violent parts. This struck me as incredibly odd, and I didn’t understand how so many people could love the very same movies that left me feeling beaten. I shrugged it off by deciding to be very selective in what movies I would go see from there on out (which was rather easy, as we usually only see two-to-three movies per year in the theater to begin with),  not realizing that this was actually a characteristic of a innate trait that has a significant role in shaping who I am.

In early 2012, Susan Cain’s book Quiet was released. As someone who’s long known to be an introvert, I devoured it as soon as it came out. It was packed full of research and provided me a better understanding of my own quietness. Living and working in a society that celebrates extroversion often left me feeling like I needed to be someone else…someone who talks more, who calls more attention to herself. Even the way I led my team was different (I was a dean at a community college at the time), as I relished lifting up others and highlighting their successes but had extreme difficulty in calling attention to my own work.

Within the book, Cain briefly touched on something called “high sensitivity“, a trait separate from introversion, but one that is more often present in introverts (about 70% of “highly sensitive people” or HSPs are introverts). The term itself is misleading, as most people read it to mean that a HSP is someone who’s feelings are easily hurt. In reality, its scientific term is Sensory Processing Sensitivity (SPS), and is used to describe someone who has a sensitive nervous system, is aware of subtleties in his/her surroundings, and is more easily overwhelmed when in a highly stimulating environment. Dr. Elaine Aron is a researcher who’s work has focused on high-sensitivity since 1991, and through that work she developed a number of characteristics that are common in HSPs, one of which is an aversion to loud or violent movies/TV shows. The more I dug into her research, the more I realized that many of the things I thought of as “weird” about myself tracked back to SPS:

  • I need to check out on busy days. When I was dean, it was common for me to have six or seven meetings per day. While most people would be fatigued by all of the meetings, I found that my brain was completely non-functioning at the end of those days. Many times I’d get back to my office and just stare at my inbox full of email, completely unable to do anything about it. It usually took time to myself, either in my office or at home, before I would regain the ability to concentrate. If I had a few days like that in a row, it might take me an entire weekend to get back to full capacity.
  • I am easily overwhelmed by bright lights, loud noises, strong smells and irritating fabrics. Last week we attended two concerts. On the second night, the couple in front of us smoked weed for most of the 2-1/2 hour show and I became so distracted by the smoke and the smell that I was unable to focus on the concert for the last hour (which is saying a lot considering how loud a Foo Fighters concert is). Not only did it physically aggravate my asthma, but the strong smell was a huge distraction in-and-of itself. Ignoring it was impossible, no matter how hard I tried.
  • I pay close attention to delicate/fine tastes and sounds. Whether it’s the buttery flakiness of my mom’s pie crust, the crispy outside/smooshy inside of the perfect french fry, or the harmoniously blended flavors of day-old chili, eating for me is a sensory experience. And when at a concert or listening to music, I can practically feel it when an instrument is out of tune, or when a musician gets off beat. But concerts are the one place where loud noises are usually a good experience. They are never a surprise (the noises) and I typically only go to concerts of bands I love, meaning that I generally know what to expect.
  • I have a rich and complex inner life. I’ve been known to bump into walls and the kitchen island in my own house because I’m deep in thought and not paying attention.

So I’m a HSP. A HSP who is very grateful to be 42 and not a young person in today’s world. The school environment we’ve created over the last decade or two is overwhelmingly to the favor of extroverted students. I think back to when I was in grade school, and I’m incredibly grateful to have been in a time where we still sat in rows and most of our work was done individually. I see images of classrooms set-up in pods and I cringe for the seven-year-old I once was, and for all of the quiet, HSP kids today who are no different from me. Most of my projects in high school were individual assignments and most classes taught in a traditional lecture style, a style in which this quiet, easily overwhelmed student thrived. I don’t envy the work of teachers, who are managing class sizes that are too large, and having to meet the needs of kiddos who are increasingly challenged by mental health issues and uncertain circumstances at home. Kids with diverse needs and even more diverse personalities. But I do hope the pendulum will eventually swing back towards the middle, and I think we’re seeing it somewhat, as I’ve also recently seen images of classrooms where kiddos can choose where they sit, whether it’s in a pod with their friends or at a seat by themselves.

Today’s office environment isn’t much better, with many companies taking down walls and creating wide-open spaces full of cubicles, despite research showing that productivity increases when people have their own space, and not only for introverts. Everybody experiences distractions (noise from their neighbors, people constantly walking by) that are detrimental to their work when people are crammed in without efforts to maintain a modicum of privacy.

While none of this might resonate with you, it might remind you of someone in your life…your spouse, your kid, a good friend. Many of us HSPs have a hard time articulating what we’re thinking, what we need. The best advice I have is to encourage you to give them space when they need it. Even if they can’t tell you they need space. If they’re overwhelmed, they need space. When we lived in Fort Collins, my job was incredibly stressful. Many evenings I’d come home from work completely overwhelmed by the events of the day. My husband is home only every-other-week, so on the weeks where he was working, I’d have all of the space I needed to recharge for the next day. But on the weeks he was home, it wasn’t uncommon for him to wait an hour, hour-and-a-half for me to “surface” after getting home from work. Fortunately, we’ve been married quite a long time and he’s intuitively figured out how to co-exist with his HSP/introverted wife. He’d just watch TV or mess around on his computer until I was ready to engage with humans. If you want to talk to your HSP or quiet spouse/friend/kid about their experiences, be sure to wait until they’re not in an overwhelmed place to start the dialogue. If you have a quiet and/or HSP kid, Susan Cain has an entire section of her website devoted to these kids, including a podcast.

If you are a HSP or think you might be, Dr. Aron’s website (linked above) has a wealth of information-including a self-test, as do her books. According to Aron, many HSPs gain a “great deal” by learning more about it, and I certainly fall into that category. Not only am I better at picking movies for myself-I did have to walk out of Wonder Woman for a bit, but I anticipated it this time and better understood why I needed the break, but I consciously carve out down time when I know I’m over-scheduled. I no longer apologize for “hermiting” as I call it, now that I understand it’s what I need to recharge my batteries. I anticipate that my brain will shut down when I’m in an overwhelming situation (such as meeting a large group of new people all at once, like when I was at WILDER), which doesn’t make it any easier, but at least it’s not a surprise when it happens. This knowledge has also helped me better understand how to use these traits to my advantage. I became a better leader and a better colleague with the increased understanding of myself. I felt grounded in my instinct to only speak up in meetings when I had something to contribute, to block out my schedule if needed, to compose an email if a message needed to be crafted carefully. I’m a better friend and spouse, because I can communicate to others about these seemingly weird quirks that can be difficult to understand for the more extroverted/non-HSPs among us. Being an introverted HSP in a loud, extroverted world will always be a bit of work, but knowing how to navigate the land mines is an invaluable, sanity-saving skill.

Solitude matters, and for some people, it’s the air they breathe. ~ Susan Cain

Politics, Uncategorized

Narrative Gatekeepers, Storytelling, and Truth

sto·ry·tell·ing
/ˈstôrē teliNG/
noun
1. 
the activity of telling or writing stories.
     “the power of cinematic storytelling”
adjective
1. 
relating to the telling or writing of stories.
     “the oral storytelling tradition”

You’d have to be living under a rock to miss the news of several high-profile men being accused of workplace sexual harassment and sexual assault over the past 4-6 weeks. Between the “me too” stories that likely flooded your social media feeds and the noise surrounding high-profile men accused of criminal behavior, the focus has rightly been on the pervasive sexual misconduct in our culture. Women have endured mistreatment at the proverbial hands of men since the beginning of time and I hope we can look back at this period as when the tide finally began to turn. But this isn’t about that.

In the event you have been living under a rock (lucky you, can I visit?), here’s a quick rundown, but not an exhaustive list, of powerful media/entertainment industry figures who’ve been accused of sexual misconduct in the workplace fairly recently:

  • Harvey Weinstein – film producer
  • Micheal Oreskes – senior vice president of news, NPR
  • Leon Wieseltier – former editor at The New Republic
  • Mark Halperin – journalist, formerly of ABC News and NBC News/MSNBC
  • Roy Price – Amazon Studios executive
  • Chris Savino – Nickelodeon producer
  • Lockhart Steele – Vox Media editorial director
  • James Toback – filmmaker
  • Terry Richardson – photographer
  • Andy Signore – Defy Media senior vice president of content
  • Bill O’Reilly – former Fox News anchor
  • Knight Landesman – Artform co-publisher
  • Kevin Spacey – actor
  • Roger Ailes (deceased) – former Fox News chairman and CEO

In many cases, these men were in positions of power, they were the gatekeepers regarding what stories got told and how. These are the people who’ve been in charge of telling our political and cultural stories, the people whose lens through which we’ve viewed the world, in some cases for decades. They determined which projects got funded, what pieces were seen, which voices were heard.

Storytelling is an incredibly powerful tool. It can be used to entertain, to educate, to connect, to make money (as in business). Great storytelling is grounded in truth, and relies on the integrity of the storyteller. Effective storytellers must also be vulnerable, creating space for their audience to feel genuine emotion and to connect with them authentically, so that all-storyteller and audience-can arrive at a place of understanding together.

For decades upon decades, the voices that have been the loudest, the tellers of the stories, and the people who are responsible for the tellers of stories, have been in many cases white men. A fair number of these men have demonstrated an extreme lack of respect for women, such that harassment and assault became “regular” workplace behavior. I struggle to pull apart the way these men lived their lives and the lens through which they view the world. Does the way they view women, particularly women with less power, influence the stories they tell and how they tell them? I think emphatically yes.

What do Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren look like through the lens of these narrative gatekeepers? How do they tell the stories of these women? What do the issues of reproductive rights for women and access to healthcare look like through the lenses of these men? How does their tremendously amplified voice influence what the rest of us think about these people, these issues? And how does the bullying behavior of these particular men influence the how the stories are told by the people that work for them? How does that behavior influence WHO works for them?

This is not to say that men can’t tell effective stories, or that they can’t cover female political candidates fairly. That’s not at all what I’m saying. But when the amplified voices are white men, and in a number of cases unethical white men, how does that influence our collective truth?

I wonder about the damage done by a network like Fox News. Setting aside the network’s inclination towards being a propaganda machine, how effectively can a network run by a man who treats women as Roger Ailes did tell the stories of women? How can they connect authentically with people, and how vulnerable can their female employees be in doing their job, considering theirs is a profession that requires a certain level of authenticity? When the most powerful lens at a network is that of a misogynistic predator, how does that influence what the rest of us see?

I don’t know what the answers are. So much damage has been done that it seems like burning down these power structures and rebuilding them would be the most effective path to true change. But that will never happen. We’re left with trying to influence broken systems, but hopefully by developing a deeper understanding into how the systems are broken, we can take back some of the power and have greater influence on our collective truth. Pay attention to who is behind the stories you read, see, hear. Who writes the music, takes the photos? Seek out stories told by diverse groups of people. Hear their truth, listen to their perspective. Who tells the stories matters deeply. Lastly, we can use our own voices, as so many women have been doing of late. Whether that’s speaking our own truth, amplifying the stories of others, or creating space where previously there wasn’t any, we all have a role in shaping the future. One story at a time.

“I will tell you something about stories . . . They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death.”  ― Leslie Marmon Silko

 

Uncategorized

The Wisdom in Quitting

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It was Saturday morning, about 10a. I’d been watching for Whitney the last 20 minutes or so, expecting to see her come bounding down the trail at any moment. I was at aid station #4 – mile 19, the first time I’d see her in the race. As her crew, my job was to tend to her needs as quickly as possible (food, drink, salt caps, medication, clothing, etc) and get her back on her way. It’s easy to burn a lot of time in aid stations in a ultra if you aren’t careful, and Whitney has hers down to a science. She had an aggressive time goal and the training to back it up. We both expected a good day.

I finally spotted Whitney and walked up to meet her. I knew she was off her pace sheet by 15 minutes or so, but with 80+ miles remaining in the race, I wasn’t at all concerned. She had plenty of time to make up a slow start and still get her PR. I asked her how it was going and she responded by saying she needed to lie down and that her asthma was really bad. We talked a bit and at her request I grabbed the nurse who happened to be working the aid station. Whitney was able to discuss her symptoms and he checked her out as best he could. She felt better after lying down for a bit, talking with her husband on the phone and using her inhaler. The rainy weather of the preceding few days seemed to stir up a lot of mold, with the fall harvest likely not helping at all. I could tell she was discouraged and frustrated, but with the nurse’s assurances that she was ok, I didn’t want her to quit without giving her body a chance to come out of the hole it was in, as weird things can happen in long races. The Hennepin Hundred has frequent aid stations by ultra running standards, so I knew she wouldn’t be on her own for long, and I was to see her again at mile 32 (aid station #7).

By the time she came into #7, it was raining and she’d lost more time on her goal. She quickly sat down again and wasn’t feeling any better. I was hesitant to push her too much, as my own asthma was giving me fits so I knew there was more to what she was experiencing than just an isolated incident (a fact I didn’t share with her until she was done), but I wanted her to be more confident in dropping. I wasn’t going to talk her into continuing, but I wasn’t going to talk her out of dropping either. After conversation with some very persistent aid station volunteers she went back out one more time. I would see her at the next aid station (providing an easy out if needed), so there wasn’t much to lose by going out one more time.

Coming into aid station #8, nothing had changed. She was still miserable, it was still raining (meaning no magical mold solutions), and 60+ miles remained in the race. By now our friends Lisa and Joe had joined us, as Lisa planned to pace Whitney a bit later in the race, and some of her running friends from Chicago were working the aid station. Whitney still wasn’t 100% certain she wanted to drop (she shared that she’d only be 100% sure if someone had to drag her off the course), but she seemed a lot less interested in continuing. With multiple 100-mile finishes and several wins under her belt, she had nothing to prove. She would risk real damage to her body to continue, only to “just finish” a race she had originally hoped to win.

We runners tend to idolize those who persevere at all costs…the runners who crawl across finish lines, who complete their races battered and bruised. I personally find more to admire in the runners who’ve learned when to go to the well and when to back off. Those who can say today isn’t my day and live to fight again. Whitney digging really deep, deep enough to know for certain that her day wasn’t going to turn around, and only to then decide to walk away, struck me as courageous and brave.

One of the things I love most about running is all of the little life lessons tucked into the training and racing. Ultra running especially has so many parallels to real life, the microcosm of our experience at Hennepin included. My own health situation might be entirely different right now if I had valued quitting in my own life much sooner. If I had more quickly quit the stressful job that started all of this in 2014, not taken the even more stressful job in 2015 (a case of my being stubborn and not wanting to “pause” my career), and just held still in 2016. Quitting is a dirty word in our society. We don’t value those who can look at a situation (or a race) and say “this isn’t for me” and walk away. Why not? Why don’t we value the ability to take care of ourselves, mentally and physically, even when that care involves quitting? I greatly admire my friend’s running accomplishments and what she’s been able to achieve the last few years. But I have even more respect for what I witnessed on Saturday.

As we continue to have conversations about mental health in this country, I hope the collective we start to make space for saying “no”, for walking away from the things that don’t serve us, whether that’s the job, the relationship, the city, the race, etc. I hope we can recognize that realizing what isn’t working is just as powerful as knowing what does. Sometimes the answer is to lean in and fight hard, but sometimes it’s to walk away. For my friend, the answer on Saturday was to walk. May we someday learn that when we honor our bodies and our hearts, it is impossible to let down our “crew” – the people who support us in life. Rather it is in those moments that we honor them the most.

When quitting is done correctly, it isn’t giving up – it’s making room for something better.  ~Adam Kirk Smith

General, Politics, Reflection, Uncategorized

Protests, Athletes, and Developing Understanding

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I don’t want to write about this. I’m not “qualified”, I’m not an expert, and I’m not well-versed in the nuance of the issue, all of which leaves me feeling as though my thoughts aren’t valid. I’m a middle-class white woman who doesn’t watch sports. And yet. The noise in my head is so loud, so distracting, that I must write about it, if only selfishly for my own sanity. So here we are.

Even though spectating most professional sports isn’t my jam, I casually followed the Colin Kaepernick story last year. I admired the players who were using their platform to bring attention to inequities and injustices that exist within our society. They are real and they are significant. But after President Trump’s remarks on Friday evening, I’ve spent the last few days thinking deeply about the subject, reading a number of articles of varying opinions, with hopes of gaining a better understanding of my own. What I’ve been unable to do is watch the “rants” posted to social media. I’ll read an article, watch a reasoned conversation, but I am done watching people rage into the camera. My experience is that these only resonate with people who agree with the ranter and do nothing to advance discourse. And they’re exceptionally annoying.

As I’ve followed the dialogue, a number of themes have emerged from those who are critical of the act of kneeling during the national anthem. 1. The players who kneel are unpatriotic. 2. The players who kneel are disrespectful to our military. 3. The players who kneel should stay in their lane – stick to playing football and keep their politics/social justice efforts off the field. 4. The players who are kneeling are ungrateful. (They’re millionaires – what do they have to complain about?)

On Patriotism

According to dictionary.com a patriot is: 1. a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion. 2.a person who regards himself or herself as a defender, especially of individual rights, against presumed interference by the federal government. 3.a U.S. Army antiaircraft missile with a range of 37 miles (60 km) and a 200-pound (90 kg) warhead, launched from a tracked vehicle with radar and computer guidance and fire control. (I’m going to ignore the third definition here, as I hope it’s clear that no one is referring to a antiaircraft missile in this dialogue.) Nowhere in the multiple definitions I read does it discuss HOW one acts as a patriot-how someone “loves, supports or defends” the country. There are no guidelines, no requirements which leaves it up to each of us to craft our own image of how a patriot behaves, what one looks like.

In a country as diverse as ours, it makes sense that there would  be a multitude of ideas about how one acts as a patriot. For some, a patriot is one who stands faithfully for our anthem, someone who dutifully supports the president and his (or her) administration, someone who doesn’t question the authority of the police. For others, myself included, the act of protest is patriotic. Standing up for the rights of others, calling out injustice, clamoring for change are acts that are woven into the fabric of our history. Much of the progress made in our society has advanced in part because of protest – the woman’s right to vote, advances in civil liberties, the end of the Vietnam war. Without individuals willing to put themselves on the line, to agitate and make noise, so much of what we take for granted would not be possible. People in power are often not remotely interested in sharing it. It takes tremendous pressure for meaningful change to take place. Horrendous inequalities still exist within our country, and our past suggests that progress won’t be made without people making noise in the proverbial streets.

Snubbing the Military

As the wife of an Air Force reservist, I find the comments about the athletes taking a knee disrespecting the military particularly agitating. I don’t need anyone to speak on my or my husband’s behalf, to assume what actions disrespect us. I’m far more offended by the government’s attempt to take healthcare away from thousands of people than I am a bunch of athletes making a silent protest. Besides, ideologically, military members are as diverse as our country. I’m sure there are more than a few military members and veterans who are offended by those who kneel for our anthem. I’m also certain there are a great many who are not. Let’s not pretend that the military is some monolithic group who’s feelings need protecting.

Lastly, when people join the service, the oath they take is to protect the constitution, not the flag. This is an important distinction, as I’ve seen multiple references to the military’s defense of our flag which is factually incorrect.

Football Only Please

“Stay in your lane” is a statement used in an attempt to put someone in their place. I see it used in regards to Jimmy Kimmel as he speaks about healthcare-a topic that has deeply impacted his family, and I see it used in an attempt to silence the athletes. At first blush, I understand what people mean. They want entertainers to entertain, not distract with “real world” conversation and politics. But upon further thought, that doesn’t make any sense. None of us live in a vacuum. We can’t separate our lives into neat little boxes. Frankly, I think we should all use whatever platform we have to advance conversations and issues that are important to us. Do some people have bigger platforms, larger audiences? Without a doubt. If those people-actors, athletes, musicians, etc-use their given platform for advocacy, and they have their employer’s support, then as far as I’m concerned the case is closed. They don’t need anyone else’s permission. The consent the rest of us provide is watching their show, watching the game, buying the music. If someone is that bothered by the message and the advocacy, walk away. But to expect that individual’s employer, a NFL team owner in this case, to share one’s belief system or one’s expectations about what a player should or shouldn’t do is unreasonable. If enough people aren’t buying the thing-watching football in this case-the owners then get to re-evaluate, but still might make the same decision. That’s on them.

Trump’s comments on Friday night were a very loud “stay in your lane” remark. By referring to the players as “sons of bitches” and stating they should be fired, he brought the government into the conversation, in a way that feels inappropriate. The first amendment protects our right to speak freely. This amendment does not protect our speech from our employers (it is protection from the government’s abridging that right), meaning the NFL owners could do as some NASCAR team owners did and require their athletes to stand for the anthem at games, but that’s not for the government to determine. It’s also impossible to ignore the realities of a white president calling these athletes, who are predominantly African-American, SOBs. I’ve read multiple places that “this has nothing to do with race” but there’s nothing to prove that it doesn’t. And the responsibility always lies with those in power, which in this case is Trump who is not only president, but a white man. It’s on him to ensure that his language is clear enough for us all to know his true intent.

Lastly, what happened to Michael Bennett of the Seattle Seahawks a few weeks ago confirms that this conversation is very much within the lane of a NFL player. Kaepernick initially began kneeling in response to police brutality against African-Americans and minorities. Bennett’s experience in Las Vegas essentially brings the conversation full-circle.

On Gratitude

I really can’t reconcile this one. The implication that these players, because they are millionaires who play a game for a living, should just shut up and be thankful is maddening. From my perspective, the more privilege we have, whether it’s racial privilege, financial, etc, the greater responsibility we have to use that privilege to advance the well-being of others. These players are using what privilege they do have to highlight inequities and facilitate dialogue. Kaepernick himself has paid a significant price for his advocacy, yet it was a price he was willing to pay. The actions of the players who kneel have nothing to do with lack of gratitude for their station in life. One can be grateful and still highlight social injustice (or any other topic). They aren’t mutually exclusive.

There is more to this topic, to this conversation, but this is as far as I’ve gotten in my own thinking. For more reading on the subject, a good friend shared this article earlier Monday, which addresses it far more completely. (Thanks, Troy!) During such tumultuous times, I’m challenging myself to question my own knee jerk reactions to certain situations, of which there seem to be so many these days, and forcing myself develop a deeper understanding of why I think what I do. This post is essentially a verbal vomit of my own grapplings with this particular one. I acknowledge that my perspective will likely continue to evolve, as none of us should be static in our thinking.

Rumination tends to be eased if we learn to be mindful; if we are able to be aware of, and understand how our own thoughts work. ~ Peter Kinderman

Running, Uncategorized, Wilder

(Re)Learning to Suffer

Comebacks are hard. They’re gritty, messy, imperfect and full of fits-and-starts. My experience is that the longer the layoff, the messier the return. I’ve been unable to train and race with any regularly since 2014, making for three years of decline. Between time off for a broken foot late last year, and very inconsistent training this spring because of health issues, I’m climbing out of the biggest hole in which I’ve ever been. After seriously thinking I might be done competing, both because my body was waving the white flag and my head was tired of fighting, I realized at WILDER in late May that I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. Being in that sacred space with other women who were so passionate about the sport made me realize how much I still wanted this, with the full understanding it might look much different than before. After getting my health into a slightly better place, I started training again in July with no definitive goal in mind. I just wanted to regain some fitness and go from there.

As one would expect, most runs flat out sucked. July in the midwest means serious heat and humidity, weather I don’t tolerate well in the best of circumstances. Couple that with a complete lack of fitness and it’s a recipe for copious amounts of suckage. In an effort reacclimate myself to effort and pacing, I stuck with progression runs for quality. Most of them were terrible. Pacing was all over the place and I’d regularly run out of gas a few miles before meeting my goal for a run. I knew this was just part of the process and worked hard to not beat myself up or get too frustrated.  But it wasn’t fun. Not in the least.

As mid-August rolled around, I started to get into a groove. Paces were still terribly slow, but progression runs were becoming actual progressions and I usually completed the full distance as intended. On one particular run, I was a bit more aggressive in the middle, pushing myself more than I had in previous runs making the last two miles rather uncomfortable. The narrative in my head those last few miles was total crap. I was thinking of how miserable I felt and how it didn’t used to be this hard. After the run, I spent some time thinking about “before”…when I was healthy, training and racing at my best. And I had to laugh at myself. It’s always been hard. In fact, it’s been much, much harder.

We runners talk about increasing our aerobic capacity, lactate threshold, capillary density, etc. Things we can measure, and for which there is scientific evidence to guide our training. The deficit I uncovered in myself was a disconnect with effort. I forgot how it felt to suffer. What it felt like to sit in the hurt-box, the pain-cave. I thought back to my PR marathon (3:31 in Oct. 2012), a race that was well-executed with a negative split. I distinctly remember talking to myself for the last four miles. Continuously. Forcing myself to keep my foot on the gas, to keep pushing, when every cell in my being wanted to back off. I had a hamstring that threatened to go, especially the last two miles. I was just willing my body to hang on, which thankfully it did. The last 30 minutes of that race was total agony, as racing often is when done right. The confidence to stay on the gas in a race is cultivated in training, through workouts that force an athlete to work through discomfort, and that help find and explore the edges. Exploring these edges used to be my favorite part of training/racing. I enjoyed a hard effort and standing a bit too close to the fire.

Over the past few years of running, which included very little racing, I became completely disconnected with effort and the hurt-box. I developed a rose-colored glasses for the past, easily forgetting the miles and miles of training and discomfort that accompanied the highlights I replay in my mind. Now that I’ve cracked the lid and peered inside, I see a whole new aspect of training that needs attention. Not only do I need to rebuild my physical self, I need to get comfortable being uncomfortable again.

Not surprisingly, after realizing that I needed to regain an ability to lean into discomfort, the past two weeks have marked a step forward in rebuilding fitness. Last Friday I ran my longest run of the year, with last week being the highest weekly mileage (so far). Times are dropping slowly, and I’m less likely to back off when a run gets uncomfortable. Things still suck much of the time, but I’m ok with that. I feel as though I have a better perspective on the work that needs to be done, and the effort it will take to get back in the neighborhood of my previous level of fitness (if that’s even possible). I hope that by not having a firm end-goal in mind, I can stay present and not look too far down the road. It’s been such a joy to put in some miles again, to work hard, to make myself tired. Running can break your heart, crush your soul, but for me it’s always been like breathing. And for the first time in several years, I can take a deep breath again.

“it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.” ~ Mary Oliver

Photo credit: Marty Barman

 

Uncategorized

Beaches, Politics, and Hope

On Friday evening, I went for a walk on the beach. I watched my young niece play in the sand and splash in the waves. I watched my sister fly a kite with her seven-year-old son. My husband and brother-in-law goofed around, my 13-year-old niece looked for shells. The sun set behind the clouds, lighting up some storms off to the east. We were coming to the tail-end of a week long vacation at my family’s favorite beach, a place we’ve been visiting for over 25 years. That we even had this vacation with all of us is something of a miracle, as my dad is sharing his body with a tumor that will eventually take his life. Metastatic pancreatic cancer has been part of our family for two years now, and each milestone and holiday we get to share together is one that I hang on to with every cell in my being.

I was thinking about all of this as we walked back up to the house. I still needed to pack before going to bed, as we were hitting the road early the next morning. I quickly checked Twitter in one last bit of procrastination before throwing my stuff in the suitcase, only to read about what was transpiring in Charlottesville. When I wasn’t driving on Saturday, I spent much of my time following the day’s events on social media, increasingly horrified by what I read. I spent most of the week bathed in gratitude…grateful for a family that continues to choose to spend time together, grateful for parents that made the most of what little we had growing up and who made sure we got to travel outside of our small town when we were young-including this beautiful beach, grateful that my sisters are two of my closest friends, grateful to spend time with their kids-who are all becoming wonderful humans, and grateful for the privilege of spending a week on vacation with all of them. These feelings of gratitude contrasted so sharply with the emotions I felt reading about the “unite the right” rally and the violence that ensued.

As someone who can be a bit of a pollyanna, I’ve spent the last several years reconciling what I think I know of our country with what it actually is. I’m ashamed to admit that it wasn’t until I started working in public health that I began to deeply appreciate the inequities that exist, and how they continue to be perpetuated by public policy. When working in cardiac rehab, I had patients who regularly chose between medication and food, but I had no appreciation for the environmental factors that influence poverty, nor did I understand how policy perpetuates that poverty. When we lived in Fort Collins, I  supervised a grant that provided resources for the facilitation of a health equity coalition. We partnered with eight neighborhoods that were low-income and inhabited by residents who were primarily Hispanic, a number of whom were undocumented. For the first time, I began to dig in to the topic of health equity, and to understand how policy contributes to great inequity in this country. I appreciated working with these honest, hard-working people, and I appreciated getting a small window into the immigration debate, a debate that is certainly not as simple and straightforward as some politicians would like us to believe. “Build a wall” is a ridiculously simple solution to a complex issue, and says more about the person offering the solution than it does about the issue itself.

In the run-up to last year’s election, it seemed that a light was being shone into some very dark corners of our collective psyche. A candidate for the highest office in our country admitted to (and bragged about) sexually assaulting women, incited violence at his “rallies”, displayed a shocking level of unfamiliarity with public policy, and thumbed his nose at the transparency we’ve come to expect of presidential candidates (releasing taxes), and was still elected. This speaks volumes to the priorities of a large number of Americans, and to what they’re willing to overlook in order to advance their ideology. Since Trump’s inauguration, Amy Siskind has been tracking subtle shifts in our democracy, and each week’s list is more alarming than the last. This week culminated with a white supremacist rally that ended in violence with three people dead. Many politicians made statements agains hate groups such as nazis and white supremacists, but Trump wasn’t one of them. The anti-immigration, anti-science, anti-environment, and racist agenda of this administration is making every attempt to drag us 50 years into the past. Back to a time when pollution clogged our air and our rivers, when government-sanctioned segregation was still a thing, and when women did not have full autonomy over their bodies.

Throughout the election and the first part of this year, I’ve been careful with my words. I hate conflict and will go out of my way to make others comfortable. In my desire to not offend others, I’ve not honored the values that are most important to me…those of equity and inclusion. Decades upon decades of horrible public policy have harmed entire groups of people in our country. From urban renewal decimating black neighborhoods to the military’s policies on LGBTQ service members, our government has continually and routinely perpetuated inequities.  Over time, some of those policies have been overturned/updated, but so much work remains. In addition to promoting an agenda that will only enhance racial and income inequity, our current president emboldens the worst of us-those that promote hate, abhor diversity and stand for everything our country is supposedly against. Time will tell how we will respond. I recently read the book Hope in the Dark by Rebecca Solnit, which offered great perspective on these dark times:

Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act. When you recognize uncertainty, you recognize that you may be able to influence the outcomes – you alone or you in concert with a few dozen or several million others. Hope is an embrace of the unknown and the unknowable, an alternative to the certainty of both optimists and pessimists. Optimists think it will all be fine without our involvement; pessimists take the opposite position; both excuse themselves from acting. It’s the belief that what we do matters even though how and when it may matter, who and what it may impact, are not things we can know beforehand. We may not, in fact, know them afterward either, but they matter all the same, and history is full of people whose influence was most powerful after they were gone. 

So I choose hope, and I choose to use my voice. I will use my privilege and the security it affords to not sit silent in the presence of violence, racism and hate. I’ll force myself to get uncomfortable, because the discomfort felt by others is exponentially greater. I’m late to the party, but trust that showing up late is better than not showing up at all. I believe all of us will have to pick a side if you will, that the current administration demands we engage with our government. I do not feel people are being alarmist when they say our democracy is in danger. If you haven’t already been in contact with your members of congress, consider reaching out this week. Ensure they know what’s important to you, and hold them accountable for their words and actions. A little more than half of all eligible voters participated in the 2016 presidential election (61% was the most recent figure I could find). This administration does not represent a majority of voters. Our democracy will function at its best when everyone participates and inequity is all but assured to continue (and likely to worsen) unless we engage. Other forces-money, lobbyists, etc-influence government, but when we are silent we essentially give the microphone to those interests.

If you, like me, are worried, horrified, afraid, concerned, etc, use that energy to act in whatever way you are comfortable. Write letters, donate money, speak out, volunteer your time to organizations that support issues important to you. Don’t sit on the sidelines. As Rebecca Solnit said, we must believe that what we do matters. Because it does.

“There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.” ~ Elie Wiesel

Reflection, Running

Running, Body Image, and Changing Narratives

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It was the fall of 1992. I was in the locker room of my high school changing before a volleyball game, listening to the chatter of my teammates. The conversation was unremarkable, the details of which I no longer remember. Eventually, the dialogue transitioned to a body-bashing session, where my teammates took turns going through the laundry list of things they hated about their physical selves. Breasts that were too big or too small, thighs that jiggled, stomachs that were too fat. (None of this was true, they were all beautiful.) I remember listening in silence, not unusual for an introvert, but this time it was in curiosity. Until that moment, it never occurred to me that my body was something loathe. I felt left out, feeling uncomfortable that I didn’t have something to contribute. I remember walking through my physical form in my mind while the conversation continued. I was nothing special – 5’7″ and a skinny 110 lbs. I was flat-chested, broad-shouldered, and all arms-and-legs. I wished I was curvier and prettier, but didn’t hate my body.

By this point, my body had carried me through over a decade of softball and basketball, seven years of running/track, and six years of volleyball. I loved playing sports. I grew up riding my dirt bike around the neighborhood with my best friend, literally the boy next door. We climbed trees, raced our bikes. One time he dared me to ride my big wheel up the tree at the end of our driveway, which was a terrible idea but I tried anyway. The smallest kid in my class, I usually wore my hair short, rocking a killer Dorothy Hamill at one point, and avoided dresses and other “girly” attire. I liked to pull my socks up to my knees-my mom still likes to tease me about that-and button my shirts up to the top.

I didn’t grow up in a home with an older sister (I am the oldest of three girls), and I don’t recall my mom ever talking about her body. She taught us how to play softball as soon as we were old enough to play catch. She coached my team in junior high when no one else would and we’d spectate her slow-pitch games. I remember one of her games during which everyone’s hair was standing on end, the sky dark overhead. Partway through the game, she came up to bat and at the moment she made contact with the ball, a bolt of lightning spidered across the sky and the umpire called the game as she rounded first, cutting short what would’ve been a home run. It remains one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. We lived a block away from the ballpark and it wasn’t unusual for us all to go hit around when the diamond was empty. We took family bike rides and watched my dad run races. My mom ran too, preferring to take to the streets of our small town later in the evening.

As I got older, post-college, I started to identify with what my teammates said that day in the locker room. I started to compare myself to other women, to focus less on what my body could do. My basketball and softball career ended with high school graduation and volleyball after my sophomore year of college. Even though I never stopped running, I didn’t start racing regularly until several years later. Part of me wonders if had I continued to compete (race) regularly after I finished playing volleyball, if I could have hung on to some of the joy and appreciation I had for my body as a teenager. For me, there seems to be a correlation to when I started competing less and when I started to dissect my physical self.  And that critical voice didn’t go away once I started competing again. It quieted down for sure, but it always seemed to be lurking. Also, I’m sure I became socialized to this behavior that is so common among women, as that conversation before the volleyball game played itself out hundreds of times in the years that followed.

Over the past several years, as the autoimmune condition put itself front-and-center, I find myself thinking about all of this a bit more. My body has changed significantly and I feel disassociated from it. Not only am I running less, but the weight I’ve gained challenges how I see myself. The narrative in my head is far worse than anything I say out loud to my husband/friends. As I’m regaining my health, and therefore my fitness, it occurs to me that these conversations we women are having amongst ourselves is really just an amplification of the horrible voices in our heads. At times, it feels like a bonding exercise, but in reality it is a damaging habit that diminishes all of us. While I don’t have children, I do have five nieces, and I want so much more for them. I want them to celebrate their bodies and lift each other up. I want them to honor their physical form, to spend their time with their friends talking about more interesting topics rather than who hates their ass the most. I don’t know how we “fix” this, but I do believe these habits are learned.

I’ve been working hard to rewire the narrative I tell myself. After all my body has been through the last few years, the last thing it needs my critical perspective. I’m trying to be kinder to myself, to give myself a bit more grace when I feel that progress isn’t happening fast enough and when I feel insecure. For someone who’s identified as an athlete most of my life, not being able to race much the last few years has been extremely challenging. The last marathon I ran was Boston in April 2015 (my fifth consecutive Boston) and it was a nightmare. I haven’t run a “fast” marathon since Oct. 2013. I love to train for long races. I savor being completely strung out from a hard effort, leaving every ounce of myself in a workout or a race. I think I’ve had a great deal of fear that I wouldn’t experience those things again. That my marathoning days are over, that there would be no more ultras. And while I didn’t give into that fear, I believe it and the insecurity manifested themselves in this horrible narrative.

Over the last few months, I’ve walked down that road a bit…what if I’m not able to race marathons anymore, or run long efforts on trail? What if I never qualify for Boston again? I would be very disappointed, no doubt, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I can still run. Even now, the most unfit I’ve ever been in my life (literally), I can still get in a decent week of training – I can enjoy a few hours on single track and run enough miles to make myself pleasantly tired. (That last part is really important.) And as I’ve opened myself to those doubts, I find the critical voice, the mean girl, is quieter. It makes me wonder, what if doubt and fear are the root of this narrative, this voice that doesn’t serve us? How can we cultivate the resilience to acknowledge and process those doubts/fears so that they don’t acquire more power than they deserve? How can we cultivate this resilience in girls and young women? I do think that being physically active/sport is one of the greatest avenues for this work. I see in my own self how it set me on the right path as a youngster, and now at 41 is helping me find my way back to a kinder, more compassionate perspective.

Moving forward, I’ll continue rewriting the stories I tell myself. Cutting short those that don’t serve me, and reframing those that are scary. I’ll be more courageous and honest with myself about the root of the stories, and not be manipulated by my own self-doubt. I’ll also watch what I say to my friends, and ask some questions when this dialogue presents itself, as it certainly will.  Habits are hard to break, but this one is worth the effort I think. I’m curious as to what words will fill in the empty space. They are certain to be more interesting and creative, of that there is no doubt.

“Being completely alive is a task, it’s not at all a given thing. It’s not just about being present in the world, it’s being present to yourself, reaching an intensity that is in itself a way of being reborn.”  ~Anne Dufourmantelle

Photo: Marty Barman
ACA, Autoimmunity, Wilder

Rumination – Health and Healthcare

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It’s late in the morning, sunlight streaming through the trees. The cicadas are singing loudly with the birds working hard to keep up. Music is playing softly from my hydration vest, Thirty Seconds to Mars drowning out my ragged, raspy breathing (note to self #1 – use inhaler before next run in the woods). In the back of my mind is the reminder that the last time I was here, in October of 2016, I took a seemingly innocuous tumble over a root that resulted in an avulsion fracture of the cuboid bone in my foot. I’m rather klutzy, prone to walking into walls at my own house, so tripping while trail running was nothing new. Until this episode, the most severe injury from one of those tumbles was a badly scraped shoulder (note to self #2 -don’t stumble while running down a mountain).

That injury capped off what had been a horrendous couple of years of running. Early in 2014, work stress triggered a severe flare of my autoimmune condition-Hashimoto’s thyroiditis-that would take over two years and multiple doctors to corral. By the second half of 2016, I was still a llooonnnggg way from my former athletic self, but was healthier than I’d been in nearly three years and was incredibly excited about regaining fitness in 2017. The broken foot tampered my expectations, but having recovered from a different broken bone in the same foot 14 years before, I wasn’t too concerned about long-term effects. I figured this was just one more setback in a long line of set backs, not knowing that another setback-a much bigger one-was waiting just around the corner.

I wasn’t yet out of the boot when I noticed a mysterious and significant increase in fatigue. I’d started a new job in November, one that looked to be a great mix of work that I love and not TOO much responsibility (small team, small budget). I’d not had good luck the past few years finding a balance of work that I love, but that didn’t adversely impact a tenuous recovery from the Hashi’s flare, and I thought I’d hit the jackpot. As the months went by, the fatigue worsened and I got sick frequently which was highly unusual. It was clear something was up, but my doc had a difficult time pinpointing the cause. By May I was barely functioning outside of work, running very little (if at all), and losing touch with most of my friends. I used  98% of my daily (and greatly reduced) energy reserves to get through the work day.

When I left for Wilder late that month, I was in a pretty dark place. I doubted that I would ever be well again, that I would be able to be present in my relationships, that I could do meaningful work, train and race as I wanted, essentially live life on my own terms. It became quite clear that if I was going to crawl out of this massive hole I’d fallen in, I needed to make significant changes. M encouraged me to leave my job, as even if we couldn’t figure out the cause of the latest issues, removing a big item from my to-do list would have to help. I resisted taking such a big step, but Wilder created enough space in my head that I was able to see that he was right. Regaining my health was clearly going to take sacrifices, sacrifices I really didn’t want to make. It felt like a crossroad – do I continue with the status quo even though clearly nothing is changing, or do I make some bold changes with the goal of restoring my health and living the life I envision for myself? It sounds dramatic, but those were the stakes. By early June, I was a shell of my former self, in every way.

As I ran through the woods earlier this week, all of this was racing through my brain…what has transpired since the day of the fall, how nine months later, I’m as hopeful as I was then about the future. I’m on week four of what I’m calling a sabbatical, having left my job at the end of June. I don’t know how long this time off will be, but I do know that I won’t make plans for what’s next professionally until my health is restored, whatever form that ends up taking. I’ll never know if the transition last November was too much too soon, but I won’t risk making that mistake twice. Hopefully the time away won’t be more than a few months, but time will tell. I’m grateful that we’re in a place where I can take this break. Having spent the last several years working in public health, I’m acutely aware of what a privilege this is. I have a few other “conditions of satisfaction”, as we called them at Wilder, for this time off, but the most important one is getting well. It’s been over four years that I’ve lived in a body that is unfamiliar, one that has been pushed to the brink more times than I can count (not by choice), that hasn’t been honored and respected in ways it needed to be. I can be a bit deaf when it comes to taking care of myself, but I’m finally listening.

In the backdrop of my health issues sits an incredibly skilled physician. Many people caught in the vortex of autoimmunity spend years searching for an accurate diagnosis, and then in some cases a few more years searching for a physician skilled in navigating these conditions. I was two years into this most recent flare before I found my current doc. The previous one was unconcerned with an unexplainable 20 lb weight gain (20 lbs I have yet to lose), crushing fatigue and exercise intolerance (how is exercise intolerance in someone who runs marathons for fun not concerning??). He also treated only the thyroid condition, with no regard for what caused the autoimmunity, which is substandard care these days. I drive 75 minutes one-way to see my current doc. She is a Hashi’s patient herself, which means I don’t spend an obnoxious amount of time describing seemingly vague symptoms. And as a functional medicine practitioner, she’s invested in locating the root cause of a misbehaving immune system, outside of treating the malfunctioning thyroid. While my most recent issues don’t seem to be rooted in the autoimmune condition, she has been relentless in trying to identify the cause. This means I don’t have to spend tons of energy advocating for myself, trying to persuade her that something isn’t right. She’s the first doc I’ve had where I haven’t had to do that. I can’t articulate what a relief that is.

My insurance covered the great majority of the tests, including upwards of $7k in blood work. Outside of my copay, insurance paid for every office visit. I paid for one hormone test out-of-pocket. In the context of the current healthcare debate, I can’t comprehend how anyone who’s benefited from the best of our healthcare system can vote for any legislation that would deny even one American access to care. I don’t care what the trade off is. I researched extensively to identify best practices for my condition, and to identify what type of practitioner would be able to help. I drive 80+ miles one-way to her office. So many people don’t have that capability, whether it be access to a computer and internet, time to dive deep into research, an educational background that provides skills to sort through that research, reliable transportation, a VERY supportive spouse/partner, and/or a schedule flexible enough for appointments every-other-month and regular blood draws . My recovery is bathed in privilege, and that infuriates me for every patient who doesn’t benefit from such advantages. Living with chronic illness is challenging enough, especially an illness as misunderstood an autoimmune condition, without the added layer of having to advocate extensively for appropriate care, the need for adequate insurance to cover such care, and the skills/resources to access good care. It shouldn’t be that hard. We can do better. We must do better.

The current debate in national politics fills me with great despair because people’s lives are on the line. It is not hyperbole to say that people will die if much of what the Republicans are proposing comes to pass. Those of us who “have” bear responsibility to those that “have not”. Full stop. If that means I’m partisan, political, a snowflake, so be it. It makes me itchy that I benefit from the best of our system, while so many people sit outside of it, and while certain politicians are doing everything they can to ensure even more people are excluded. From healthcare. What have we become?

Reflection, Running, Transformation, Uncategorized, Wilder

Wilder

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It’s just before 6 a.m., sun waking behind the mountains, early dawn filling the air. The four of us stand at the edge of the dock, toes curled over the edge, clothes tossed in a pile. My breath shallow with anticipation. Cold air tingles across my skin. Someone counts off and with a quick jump we’re in. “Holy f-k” runs on repeat in my head, heart racing. The water is so cold I can’t think beyond those two words running like a mantra. I’m kicking furiously, eager to get to the top. Seems to take an eternity, but in reality was just a few seconds. As I break through the surface, I hear the screams of the other women shrieking loudly into the dawn. I think of the neighbors who live along the lake, amused that they’ve likely awoken to the sounds of our adventure. I’m the first one out, teeth chattering, voice stuck in my throat. Wrapping myself in my towel, I turn to find the others standing near. Giggling and smiling, the weekend comes into sharp focus. Courage, discomfort, joy…this is what I was craving. Upon arriving on Friday, I couldn’t have imagined a frigid, pre-sunrise soak in the lake would manifest it.

Like most of the other 29 women who arrived at Caldera on Friday afternoon, I had a fair amount of anxiety about the weekend. I haven’t been able to run much, will I be able to hang? I’ve only recently begun writing, will I have words?  My anticipation and excitement far outweighed any reservations, but I was nervous.

Photo: Jess Barnard

Sunday morning comes, we have a “long run” on the schedule. Courtesy of some recent (and new) health issues, I’ve barely been training. Thankfully we had three distance options – 5, 10 and 14. Even though the 14-miler visited an amazing location, I knew it was out. I hadn’t run double-digits in an exceptionally long time, and am out of practice on very technical trail, which the first four miles promised to be. I decided to go with the five, playing it safe. But a conversation with one of my cabin-mates out on our deck that morning convinced me to bump up to the ten. Worst-case scenario, I walk the last few miles. There’s not much I love more than a long effort on trails, and I was excited to take some photos.

The run passes like a dream. The trail is a bit technical in spots, enough to require attention, but not so much so that it prevents getting into a groove. I run the first few miles with others, and then end up on my own with the stops for photos. The miles pass by comfortably, I keep waiting for the wheels to come off. Made it to five miles, refilled my water bottle and quickly got back on my way. The light is magical on this morning, filtering through the leaves, dancing off the water. I get to seven, then eight miles. My legs are tired, but I know I’m going to run it in. I finally get to the end of the run, and am immediately greeted by Lauren, who gives me a huge smile and hug, and asks how it was. I tell her it was great, but what I don’t have the words for yet, what I’m not able to tell her, is that on this morning I rediscovered joy. It’s been a really, really long time since running felt joyful for me, but on this day, on this trail, I’m reminded why I love this sport. Being in the mountains with these women refills my cup, a cup I didn’t even realize had gone dry.

Baggage dropped, expectations released. These are the fruits of this work. Without an ounce of hyperbole, meeting this group of strangers for a weekend in the mountains restored some of my faith in humanity. Knowing these women are out there, doing their thing, quietly, fiercely, full of lady-swagger, brings me such joy. I met women who inspired me, who helped me walk outside myself, who led with heart and grace (thank you Marianne and Lauren). Women who gave me tools for developing this craft, women who inspired me with their words, with their feet.

Monday morning post-“swim”, we go for a silent run on a different  trail. I’ve intentionally left my phone behind (which was in airplane mode most of the weekend and functioned primarily as a camera), intentionally saving my creative energy for the writing that’s to follow. Before turning that part of my brain off for the morning, I make a mental note to come back to the trail before driving to Portland later that afternoon, as I imagined the light would be perfect in a few hours (it was). The river flows swiftly, swollen from winter, the trail snaking along the bank. I feel the energy from the river, from the trees and the mountains. I feel the energy from the other women. Words dancing along with my feet, gratitude for the fatigue in my legs, the words on the page.

Freedom as I dance

Feet flickering

Breath deep and full

Sunlight streaming

Heart racing

Sweat dripping from my hat

Around the next bend

Water rushing

Moss draping

Joy,  wild and free

Photo: Jess Barnard
Uncategorized

I Hate My Phone

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A few days ago I was sitting in a cafe having lunch. I was eating alone, reading my book. I know that reading while eating is a bad habit, but I’ve been doing it since I was a kid and can’t stop. While waiting for my food, I looked around at the handful of tables and the majority of people were eating with others. Every so often I’d glance up from my book and towards the end of my lunch, I was struck by how much time these people spent on their devices. What’s the point of lunching with friends or colleagues if much of the time your noise is buried in a device? Put down the phones, people.

I was late to the texting and social media game. Not because of any noble principles, but mostly because technology doesn’t interest me much. As the years have gone on and devices get easier to use (and do more stuff), I’ve found myself spending more time on my phone. And lately I’ve begun to hate it, which is a tricky place to be. We don’t have a landline, and even if we did, I wouldn’t want anyone to call me on it. There’s not much I hate more than talking on the phone. Texting and social media are great, ideal forms of communication for a quiet person. I have a large number of friends with whom I wouldn’t be connected without them, and I’m not interested in letting those relationships go just so I can “disconnect”. But I struggle to find a balance with being connected and being TOO connected. More recently, I’ve noticed myself grabbing my phone when my brain needs a break. This feels like a slippery slope, one that I want to step off of quickly. I think it’s reducing my ability to focus, almost like the habit itself is creating a sort of ADD.

I’ve read a number of articles providing insight on how and why to disconnect. But I don’t want to disconnect, I simply want to connect more intentionally. I used to be terrible at keeping my cell on my person, which wasn’t a big deal until I missed a call from M’s best friend telling me he’d had a skydiving accident. (Major wife fail.) Now I wear a bluetooth-enabled watch, which feels like a good solution for someone who still doesn’t keep her phone close by…I rarely miss messages/calls anymore, but can turn off the bluetooth when I want to unplug.

I’ve thought a great deal about the person I don’t want to be…I don’t want to be the girl checking her phone at stoplights (this makes me crazy…when did sitting still for two minutes become so damn difficult?). I don’t want to be the person texting/on social media while sharing a meal with others. I don’t want to interrupt conversations with live, in-person humans to take care of something on my phone. I don’t want to reach for a device when my brain needs to check out for a few min. I need to develop some boundaries, but I’m not yet sure what those boundaries look like.

This post is less a description of a solution and more an exploration of the problem. Cell phones, social media and increased connectivity aren’t going away, and I don’t want them to. But I want to cultivate a healthier relationship with them so that I can be more present, even if it’s just being more present with myself. This introvert is prone to daydreaming and a wandering mind, and in someways, these technologies reinforce the darker side of that tendency. Our time on this planet is incredibly short…walking around with my nose in a device isn’t how I want to prioritize my time. Savoring conversations with the humans in my life (conversations which could be electronic), cooking a fabulous meal, hanging out with my dog, seeing, smelling, feeling nature as I run through the woods, that’s the good stuff for me. I need to ensure that how I utilize my devices supports how I want to spend my time, and that they don’t become a distraction that syphons my attention from what matters.

“The real ugliness lies in the relationship between people who produce the technology and the things they produce, which results in a similar relationship between the people who use the technology and the things they use.”  ― Robert M. Pirsig