eight years ago...

today I was in labour. I went to Capilano Suspension bridge with J and we walked around with me occasionally doubling through a contraction. I wish so much that this could be a flawless memory. That I could somehow Hollywood-ize it with a soundtrack and editing that would show us as the perfect, happy couple about to bring their first child into the world. But, like everything in life, there is a ying and yang with the memory of what I was doing eight years ago today. There is the memory of the external world and what was going on and the separate memories from my internal world and they don't completely mesh. Nothing is ever perfect, but on that day and for several days afterward, my body and mind believed that perfection existed. Embodied by my son, my baby, my hope, I got to experience perfection and grace and immortality. My son turns 8 tomorrow. Eight years since I was a new mother, and while I can't help but echo the tired sentiment of, "where did the time go?", I feel at the same time like it has definitely been eight full, long years. Eight years of growth and pain and joy and sleep deprivation and worry and excitement and tears and laughter and love. So much love for this little being who with every passing day needs me less and less as he walks forward in his own life, his own reality. It's a heartbreaking affair being a parent - like dropping a leaf off a cliff and hoping that it will land in a designated area. I stand back and watch him make his way through the challenges in life, watch him decide who to be and how to proceed with things and all I can do to help is try and show him as much of the 'big picture' as possible.

I've been off running for two weeks. Not an official injury (phewf) but some definite overuse wear and tear. Had a very interesting conversation with the physiotherapist that I see yesterday. We were discussing the ability to listen to our bodies and know when it's time to back off vs. listening to our brains and allowing ourselves to become derailed or demotivated. With running there is a very fine line; especially the type of running that I do. It hurts. I go long distances over the span of hours and it does come with a certain amount of pain. However, looking back in my journals (and even this blog) I can see that I was getting a sense of foreboding that something was wrong. I was feeling stretched and my confidence in being able to keep up with the training was being undermined by a sense of doom and gloom. I have this great fear of becoming depressed. Ever since I dug myself out of the pit of melancholy that ruled my life when I was younger I have been rigidly arranging my life to specifically avoid ever having to live there again. Lately, with everything else that has been going on, I have had second thoughts about this approach and wondered, what would happen if I honoured the melancholy? What would happen if I sat in it, acknowledged it, embraced it as part of who I am and how I relate to the world? I think my blind adherence to the training schedule, through sickness and fatigue even, is a byproduct of my fear of depression. If I can learn to examine all the moods within and be okay with the fluctuations, then I might be able to listen to my body better and know when there is attention or modification needed. Something to work at and even though it scares the crap out of me to even consider being 'flexible', I know that if I can let go of controlling everything (not just the running) it will only make me stronger. I see a great physiotherapist :)

Anyway, I should be back on track by next week. I had to miss my race this past weekend and my training has taken a serious hit. I will still be able to race the big one in December though and that is really my only goal at this point. To run and and to finish this impossible goal that I set for myself at the beginning of this year. Onward and upward!