amelia carolyn

Here in Kaua’i I have one main fitness goal: to begin a yoga journey. I want to increase my flexibility for climbing. I want more core strength and mental focus. So for the next six months, I have committed to going to yoga six days a week (every day but Sunday). Our days are scheduled around it. And it helps that both Bracken and I are embarking on this journey together, as there’s no waffling when one or the other is feeling too tired or not in the mood to go to class—we go to yoga at noon every day. That’s it. No question.

I’ve done yoga before—Bikram, Corepower, yoga with weights, yoga for relaxation—but I’ve never gone more than two or three times a week at the most (and usually struggled to maintain a once-a-week routine). And I’d never gone two days in a row.

Today is my 18th day on the island and will be my 15th day of yoga. I’ve had mixed results. As a runner, my flexibility is extremely compromised. I notice it most in my hamstrings, but my back and neck are pretty stiff as well.

While I credit my once-a-week yoga practice back in 2004 for keeping me injury-free during my first marathon (February 2005), I began to think that combining long-distance running with yoga was tricky business. More often than I’d want, I would notice tweaks and pains in my knees and hips during a run after a yoga session. I have no scientific proof or resources to back up this theory, but I feel like the yoga was doing its job and stretching my muscles, but that my muscles didn’t have the time to strengthen along with the flexibility, and were so loose, that they were actually more at risk for injury.

I believe the two can (and likely quite beautifully) work together and complement each other, but it needs to be done slowly. I didn’t take the time to build that strength and flexibility back in Boulder.

So here in Hawaii, I’ve started developing a plan (always subject to change, of course). I’ve opted to focus on Bikram. I enjoy the heat and the familiarity of the postures. I may do a few other classes here and there, but will be predominantly focused on the Bikram series.

I have not gone on a run since I’ve been here, and plan to wait another couple of weeks. I want to take the time to gain some flexibility and strength before introducing the repetitive jarring of running back into my routine. And since running is not my primary goal here, it feels like the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the rest and allow myself to work back up to long distances slowly.

I don’t want to lose my current fitness level, but I do think it’ll be worth the small step back to incorporate more flexibility into my running form. When I do begin to run again, I plan to begin as though I’ve never run. One or two miles to start. And these will be slow miles. I want my body to build its strength while maintaining the flexibility and openness that yoga is providing.

Maybe in another few months I’ll be up to running 5 – 10 miles regularly, but my intention is to keep to this (admittedly painfully slow) plan. I miss running!

However, yoga is teaching me many, many wonderful things—about life, about fitness and about the journey toward a truly healthy body. Stay tuned for more posts on my yoga journey.

Mt. Sanitas

Our earth is vast—filled with so many places to experience, to live, to dream about and to wonder about. And there are a few places in the world for each of us that hold a special meaning. Places that mark transitions or growth. Places that remind us of others. And places that hold history.

These places are small landmarks in our personal history, mapping out where we’ve been, what we’ve experienced and maybe even hold a clue to where we are going.

There are a number of such places in my own life, but one stands out more than any others for me.

mt. sanitas
Mt. Sanitas is a popular trail in Boulder. It’s a 3-mile loop that covers approximately 1,300 vertical feet within the first mile, reaching a summit of 6,863 ft. From the summit you can see Boulder to the east and Indian Peaks Wilderness area to the west.

I have learned efficiency, humility, patience and strength—and I have known victory—on Mt. Sanitas.

patience and humility
It all started when I was still living in downtown Denver back in 2006. Two very good friends had just moved from Dallas to Boulder and began training with me for the Pike’s Peak marathon. I drove to Boulder every Wednesday after work, meeting them at the trail head at 6:00pm. We’d run the loop, head to the climbing gym for a 2-hour climbing session, and then eat a quick dinner after. I’d then make the drive back to Denver late at night.

It was my favorite day of the week.

They were waaaay faster than me on the trail. Sometimes they’d run/walk behind me, but more often than not, they’d run up ahead (and they could actually run up to the summit, whereas I was running for the first five minutes, only to end up hiking most of the rest of the way up, huffing and puffing, my heart rate skyrocketing). I spent lots of time alone thinking and wishing I was faster and in better shape. “I will run up this trail without stopping by the end of the year,” I told myself one day. And as simply as that, I’d set the goal. That was in 2006.

I didn’t meet that goal by a long shot, but I did experience two very important lessons.

heading up the trail

1. efficiency
There was one day in particular that summer that sticks out more than all the others. It was one of those mid-summer days when no one wanted to be outside. The temperature was over 100º and the air was heavy.

I headed up to Boulder, determined to get my run in. My friends bailed, wanting nothing to do with such a hot run (and rightfully calling me crazy). However, I arrived at the trail head and climbed out of the car. And it was hot. I didn’t want to run. I wanted to crawl back into my car, crank up the A/C and drive away toward sanity. But I was already there, and I was determined to stick to my schedule.

Fortunately, I decided that simply hiking it might be a good idea, considering the heat. I figured a run might be pushing it a little too hard. I planned to go slow and steady and try to enjoy the effort. I’d been timing myself on the weekly runs to gauge my progress, and was getting a little better at running more often, but looking back, I’d guess I was still walking for over 60% of my time to the summit.

I began hiking, stepping deliberately and steadily, placing one foot in front of the other. I took my time and focused on my fluid and fuel intake. I took very few breaks, keeping my steady pace. When I finally reached the summit, I looked at my watch and did a double take.

I’d made it up two minutes faster than my fastest “run” time.

I puzzled over this on the way down and came to the conclusion that by walking, I had been able to make better placements with my feet and take longer strides. My heart rate had been able to maintain a steadier beat.

I learned efficiency can be more effective towards a goal than pride or false expectation (like thinking running is always faster than walking). It prompted me to question other perceptions, expectations and ideas I held for myself and others. And I gained even more confidence and found renewed enjoyment in exploring and pushing my physical limits.

some of the many, often interminable, stairs on the trail

2. perspective
It was my first year running  the Pike’s Peak Marathon and close to the summit it’s a pretty steep climb: all high, awkwardly spaced steps up large rocks for what seems like forever. Tired, hurting, and pushing myself forward, I experienced a relative calm when I looked up at the final climb. I’d realized that “it’s just like Sanitas.” My thoughts shifted mentally and I imagined I was climbing my home trail. It felt similar enough (only my breathing at 14,000 feet was a little harder to manage), and it allowed me to focus on the steps, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before I was on my way down.

I learned to separate the big task (finishing the darn race) into smaller, more manageable moments (climbing that last stretch of stair). The technique worked then, and I still utilize it in so many other aspects of my life (like running, hiking, yoga, travel, packing, working): breaking the task at hand into smaller bits and staying focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

spring on sanitas

my experiences on sanitas
I first hiked Mt. Sanitas back in the late ‘90s when I moved to Colorado. It took me over three hours to hike the full loop. Since then, I have run and hiked this trail with a myriad of people, in every season and in tons of different weather conditions. I have cried along the trail. I have run it sweating in 100º temperatures, and I have run it on the ice with screws in my shoes.

I’ve been lost on the trail after following a game trail. I’ve seen the leaves change colors, and I’ve seen the flowers bloom. There were the first dates up Sanitas when I was single, and the weekly runs with my friends. I heard a symphony of insects the morning I ran it after I quit my corporate job and launched into a year of exploration and uncertainty. I imagined they were all applauding my daring.

I hiked it after 18” of snow fell, realizing simultaneously that Boulder is crazy (the trail was already beaten down) and that I was in love with this trail. I remember running it one March after an ice storm where I saw these amazing sparkling creations all over the tree branches and leaves and grass—images I had never seen before, and will never forget. I have been on Sanitas in fog, on ice, through snow, at night, and at the height of a summer afternoon.

And early one morning in the summer of 2008, I ran with Bracken to the summit to watch the sun rise. He proposed while a hummingbird hovered as witness. And a year later, just a few days before our wedding, we ran it again (and encountered another hummingbird while we were on the summit). The place is truly magical.

the magic of victory
Of course, I didn’t run to the summit that first year. Nor the next or the next. I’d let the goal lie dormant as I focused on other things. And then, four years after I’d set that original goal, I went out one morning for a run.

I started slow and steady. I ran the first steep section and was happy to arrive at a flatter portion to lower my heart rate. I lengthened my stride a bit and relaxed into the run. I got to the second steep section and shortened my steps, looking for efficient ways to get to the next step without working too hard. And then I was at the final third of the trail. My curiosity kicked in and I wondered, “can I really run the whole way?”

I could and I did. Slow, steady and strong. (I had some serious stoke at the summit.)

I sat down, looking out over Boulder—my home—and was flooded with so many memories of that trail; of my life since I’d first been on that trail; of the metamorphosis I’d undergone in those years. I was stronger, more confident, moving forward towards a life that felt good and right for me. The imperceptible shifts of life moving along were magnified for me that day at the summit. My journey to that moment when running up felt easy and doable, paralleled so many other areas of life that I was working toward.

I was excited that I’d finally done it—and humbled that it’d taken me four years. It was a powerful reminder that goals take time and when we push too hard, we risk losing sight of the steps in between.

such a place
Mt. Sanitas isn’t just a trail for me. It’s not a summit to snag, or a local haunt to claim. It represents a landmark—a place on the map of my life that has served me well. It’s been a constant barometer measuring the change and growth in my life. In each rock, and in every tree and flower along the trail, I see myself and my lives—past, present and future—melding together through the seasons of experience and transition.

I hold my memories of Sanitas and her lessons close to my heart now as I move into a new environment and new phase of my life. I am so incredibly grateful for the hours spent on that ridge, and for the lessons I have learned. I feel as though I have a solid foundation from which to leap, as I set my sights onto the vast ocean from the island of Kaua’i.

Running up Sanitas felt impossible for me a few short years ago. But now I not ony know the secret, I have experienced its magic: There are no dreams too big.

There is a question that has been coming up more and more for me over the past several months. It’s a simple question, but one that provokes a lot of thought.

“Am I really afraid, or do I just think I should be afraid?

I wonder if what I’m feeling is a genuine reaction or, if somewhere along the line I’ve come to the conclusion that I am supposed to be afraid of that something and so therefore, I am.

heading out at Hanalei Bay

One of my goals here in Hawaii is to learn how to surf. I spent my summers on the beach in Southern California swimming in the waves. I have many wonderful memories of being in the ocean. I also have very vivid memories of getting pummeled by surprise sets. I remember feeling as though I was on the spin cycle in a washing machine with no sense of which way was up.

I’ve attempted to surf in Florida, California and Australia (without success). I remember feeling worked before I even got far enough out beyond the breaks to actually catch a wave.

I have taken a long board out only twice so far. At the instruction of my good friend, Adria (who has taken a number of lessons), we’re staying in the white water, working on understanding what the motion of the water feels like with the board, and balancing on the board. The sand is three feet or less below me. I can touch the ground. The waves are not large.

Yet I hesitate to approach a break. I have a large chunk of fiberglass in my arm. I do not want to get hit in the head, or cut, or bruised, or trapped.

Are these valid fears? Maybe. Especially if I was a mile out at sea, with no one watching out for me, in surf that was twice as tall as me. But alas, I am in a safe environment. The risks are minimal. Getting bruised and a little worked is part of the learning.

Yet the fear is present. And this kind of fear—this fear born from past experiences—is the kind that can hinder progress.

I was probably 10, or maybe 14 when I felt out of control in the water. The waves were likely stronger than I’d anticipated, or became stronger while I was out. I remember being scared and not wanting to feel scared. I wanted to be stronger.

I was 18 and 20 when I was attempting to surf. I remember feeling intimidated by the strength of the water.

practicing balance

Yet now, at the age of 36, with a number of years of master’s swimming and triathlons under my belt; with way more core and upper body strength than I’ve ever had; and in perfectly manageable conditions, I feel the familiar anxiety set up shop in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve had similar experiences while climbing, running alone, navigating talus downhill and in unfamiliar situations I encounter. I realize that some experiences serve as good lessons for the future and I certainly don’t live my life in fear of fear. But I do notice fears arising that seem disproportionate to the current situation. And there are some times when the fears seem to stem from someone else’s fears from my past that are more prone to fear, but to whom I relate to in other ways.

I know I will not always (or ever) have an answer to the question of whether the fear I’m feeling is my own, or from some other source, but I do know that being aware of the possibility that I may not be as afraid as I think I am, is an intriguing notion.

“Am I truly afraid?” is a question I plan on asking myself whenever I feel the telltale drop in the pit of my stomach. Can I tap into a hidden reservoir of strength and confidence? There are times when I know without a doubt that that reservoir is there. And then there are other times when it seems merely a mirage.

I want to delve into this idea of fear further, pushing myself to ask the tough questions, seeking greater experiences in this world.

Yesterday, I arrived at Lihue airport on the Hawaiian island of Kaua’i.

This is my first visit to Hawaii, and I couldn’t be happier that instead of vacationing here for a week or so, it’s for a long stay. We plan to live here for six months to work, to live, to learn and to experience something new.

It’s so easy for me to stay where it’s comfortable. The familiar routine of morning coffee. Familiar trails. A community of good friends. When Bracken suggested we move here, I committed pretty immediately. It sounded so wonderful (I mean, duh… who wouldn’t want to live in Hawaii?). But more than wonderful and exotic and fortunate to have the means and time to do so, it seemed to fit. There was an aspect that just felt right to me.

So, after a couple of months packing up our stuff after our wedding, a hectic week moving it all into a storage unit, and a week of car trouble where we weren’t sure we were going to make our original flights and feeling pretty displaced and defeated before we’d begun, we made it.

For me, I want to experience something new. I want to slow down and find a way to simply be without my own expectations, interests and familiar routines getting in the way. I finally feel ready to move forward on a new career path (one I’ve been searching for and thinking about for over a year now). And I’m excited to begin that process of recognizing and realizing my (newly rediscovered) long-held dream to write and to work with others, helping them realize their own goals and dreams.

I don’t know how I know, but I know this is the place to do it. I imagine it’s similar to the feeling I had when I moved out to Colorado way back when. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t leave it for a long time, and I knew it was the right place for me. And today, I know Kaua’i has something planned for me. Maybe it’s something big. Or maybe it’s simply planting new seeds of growth for something far in my future.

I’ve learned to trust my intuition a little better lately, and although it’s not going to be without challenges and difficult moments, I feel a quiet calm in my presence here. A quiet and peace that feels good and right.

I’ve tried to keep my expectations and plans open as to what I want to do here and leave here with, but I do have a few things I know, and want to share them here, with you, my dear readers.

• I plan on doing a LOT of yoga. I want to strengthen and heal my body and to meditate and find deeper peace and knowledge of myself.
• I will be spending a lot of time working towards a certification as a life coach. This is the first step on my new career path and one that is amazingly exciting for me to think about and finally delve into.
• I plan on spending a lot of time swimming in the ocean and learning how to surf. It’s a childhood dream to be a surfer and while I have no expectation on surfing large waves, I do want to be comfortable in the water, with a board, standing up.
• I want to write. A lot. I have a vision of this blog with a lot more updates, observations and stories, as well as writing for a few bigger projects I have in mind. Stay tuned.
• And finally, I want to slow down. I want to find a deeper sense of consciousness in my choices and an awareness in the world around me.

Over breakfast this morning, I looked around and got the feeling as though I’d been plucked out of my own life and dropped in on an entirely new world. It’s a good thing, it’s a scary thing and it’s an entirely unknown thing. And I’m ready.

I remember when I moved out of my parents house, that figuring out where “home” was was something I thought about. Was I coming home from college for the summer, or visiting my parents for three months? Was I leaving home for four years, or moving to a new one?

It took me awhile to feel comfortable calling my college dorm room “home.” (And I’m not convinced I ever really did… I never felt that connected to Miami.)

The fall after I graduated, I moved to Colorado and finally felt like I’d landed. Maryland had been my home because my parents lived there and I grew up in the same house for 18 years. But I knew that house, and Maryland, wouldn’t be home forever.

Although I’d only driven through Colorado once or twice as a child on family road trips, being here and living here felt right. I moved around a lot at first, but as the years went by, I realized I identified myself as being “from” Colorado instead of Maryland. All my apartments and houses I’ve lived in over the past 14 years were homes for me. When I moved to Boulder, my connection to the state and to this particular town was stronger than ever. The air, the trails, the routes, the coffee shops… they fit.

And now, I’m leaving on a new adventure with my new husband. We’re leaving Colorado. We’re leaving Bolder. We’re leaving our apartment and putting all our material possessions in a 10′ x 15′ storage unit.

We’re moving to Hawaii for six months and then plan to travel through the US for a year when we return. We’ll have only clothes and a few essentials with us in Hawaii. A van for the road trip. Our possessions could be in storage for almost two years.

So where is home? It’s a question I have been pondering and mulling over recently. A good friend of mine has a great attitude about it: Wherever you are that day, is home.

Wherever we are.
Wherever we are. It’s a new perspective for me. One that intrigues and tantalizes. I want to explore it and feel it and notice it. I want to sit with it and say it to myself over and over. “I am home wherever I am.” Will it be challenging? Or will it feel natural right away? How will this new perspective effect other perspectives in my future? Will I find more or less meaning in tangible objects? Will I end up traveling nomad-style for longer? Or will I long to “nest”?

The concept of home has infinite variations. I love that about our world. Maybe Colorado was a stopping point in learning where my true home actually is. For me—today—it’s here. Right where I am. Wherever I am.