A reader of my recent Substack essay, “The Tao of Writing to be Read,” let me know she opened it when the light “turned red,” read it while parked at the stoplight, and finished it before the light turned green. Two things came to mind. Research indicates a stoplight remains red for 60 to 90 seconds. While my friend may, in fact, be a speed reader, this does indicate the good news that the piece did not drag on. Moreover, her chosen moment suggests a certain level of urgency or intrigue to read the piece, which has got to be a good sign.
No matter when or where you read, I thank each and every one of you for taking the time and interest to check out my regular essay installments. This has become such a wonderful way to share my experiences and perspectives with you, as I continually look for ways to reach out through my writing.
What Is Your “Now”?
I was nine years old when my dad rented a sterling silver flute for me. “Rented” was the key word, in that he had no idea whether I would actually take to it, learn to play the instrument, go the distance. I validated his decision by my early inability to get a sound out of the pipe, holding my lips against the plate as if I were blowing across the rim of a bottle, and getting nothing but damp air.
Even so, I was enchanted by the beautiful instrument, which I carried around in its burgundy velvet-lined case, both displayed and valued like jewelry, as I showed it to anyone who would linger long enough to admire my treasure.
And then, one day, I achieved a sound more melodic than static, a kind of warm, wafting resonance, the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
The harder I worked to master “the flute,” the more skilled my playing became, the better I understood that I was not the master of this instrument; we were companions, in this together. More than a relationship, this engagement helped form an identity, my sense of self. I complemented it when I played, wearing only sterling silver jewelry—rings, and narrow bangles that ran the length of one forearm. I practiced daily, played in the school orchestra, concert band, honor band, and marching band, straight through my university years. My social life was framed by friends in the band.
This is who I was.
Until it wasn’t. After college, apart from an occasional church performance, I played my flute for my own amazement, enjoyment, and sometimes solace. Until I didn’t. Until I adopted baby twin girls and never found another moment when they weren’t napping or I wasn’t trying to merge my roles as mommy, professor, writer, runner, overwhelmed woman.
Yet, I had concurrently developed another sense of self as a runner. This began in the spring semester of my freshman year of high school, when my PE teacher, Carolyn Howell, had assigned us to choose and commit to the number of miles we would run during the semester. As a child, having been distinguished from my twin sister as the chubby one, the only running I’d ever done was to escape the taunting. Yet, whether it was because I wanted to impress Carolyn Howell or because I wasn’t great at math, I committed to running 75 miles that semester. Miss Howell later told me no other student had pledged more than 5 miles. She also said I had set an impossible goal. I asked, as long as I ran during school hours, if I could go for it.
Throughout that spring semester, I ran during PE class, during lunch, and during my “study hall” period. By the end of the semester, I had logged in 77 miles. Most importantly, I had become a runner.
I was 15 when I entered my first road race, a 10K or 6.2-mile trek. I was 30 when I went to work as “director of franchise development” in the corporate office of Fleet Feet Sports, and I later became a buyer for The Treadmill in Carmel. I was 32 when I completed my first 26.2-mile marathon and went on to run six more, plus a couple dozen half-marathons. I also jumped in the pool, bought a bike, and launched into triathlons.
I will always remember when, competing in my first Sacramento Triathlon, I had finished the swim and had begun the bike leg of the race, when a woman caught up beside me. Her bike was red and had white disc wheels with red lips in the center. Her helmet was red-and-white striped, her bike shorts were red-and-white gingham, and her lips and nails were blood red. She turned to me and said, “Face it; I’m a cyclist,” and left me in her dust.
Although I reminded myself that swimming clearly hadn’t been her strength, I felt disempowered by her. Until, while racking my bike in front of the state capitol building, I saw the woman, just beginning her run. With a silent prayer, asking God to forgive me for what I was about to do, I ran up to the woman and said, “You may be a cyclist, but I’m a runner. See ya at the finish line” and sped off. ‘Still not sorry.
For 45 years, running was not just something I did, it was who I was. It had changed how I looked, how I felt, and how I saw myself. It was empowering, exhilarating, challenging, freeing, fun. And then one day, I stopped. My piriformis muscles and my “glutes,” had gone from whispering to yelling, from requests to demands that I stop. And so, I did.
Once again, this is who I was. Until it wasn’t.
I have begun to learn that our lifeline is punctuated by stages. By the eras of our lives and what defines them. So, rather than lamenting the loss of an activity, the role it played in our lives, and the sense of self that came from it, I have decided to redefine myself in the present by asking, “What is my Now?”
While it is fine and even fun to look back on our life events and what defined us, and it can be inspiring to look toward what lies ahead, spiritual leader Ram Dass taught us to “Be here now.” So I ask myself, what is enchanting me, engaging me, inspiring me, inviting me to lean in and learn, contribute, and grow today? I was six years old when I wrote my first little story. All these years later I am, more than ever, a writer.
I love the permission you have given yourself and others to be all in until you are not. And to try all the things with gusto and not let a part of your identity become the whole of it ♥️great writing (as usual) and I am so glad you beat that brat-hole in the triathlon 🤣
Not only am I again, riveted by your words and story weaving, nor just learning more about you through your words, but I’m left with such introspective thought of what this means for me. I applaud and thank you for the gift of your sharing. Expertly written. You ARE a writer.