This is another in my series of “defining moments“: Moments in my life that changed me in a significant way.

***

I stared out the window as we traveled west. The rolling sands of the desert passed by, punctuated with cactus and tumbleweed. The red sands in the distance beckoned. Moab was getting closer.

I inhaled the warm air as it blew through the open window; my hand hung outside, feeling the resistance of the air around my fingers. I leaned over and turned up the music.

Looking out at the open vistas I felt my body relax a little more with each mile between myself and my job. The stress was taking its toll. The music lilted through the air and my ears perked up. I turned the volume  up again to hear the words a little clearer, and began to fall in love.

I replayed it over and over. And over. And over again. My thoughts suddenly spinning in my head.

It wasn’t just that Nine Inch Nails could write such a hauntingly beautiful melody. Its’ magnetic pull was so much more. In this particular song, the piano gently moved through the verses, weaving through the lyrics, exploring their depths; its beauty and simplicity underscoring the weight of the words.

“If you look at your reflection, is it all you want it to be?”

Was I happy? Was I living a life I was proud of? That excited me? That fulfilled me? Was I making a difference?

The next question rose up:

“And if you could look right through the cracks, would you find yourself afraid to see?”

Could I look at myself with honesty? With pride? With confidence? Without apology? Could I look at my cracks—my faults and weaknesses and failures—and see them? Did I even recognize them? Or would I deny them? Would I ignore them and pretend they weren’t there? Could I see my unhappiness? My stress?

The answers started coming as quiet, unconscious rumbles in my heart. As I tasted and explored the words, seeds of change began to vibrate from my cells and into my blood, inching their way into my thoughts and my consciousness.

In that moment—driving into the desert at 80 mph listening to Nine Inch Nails—the course of the next 18 months of my life shifted dramatically. It was a subtle, and quite simple beginning to a new way of life.

***

Back home (after having listened to the song another ten, fifteen, twenty times), I thought that maybe taking a literal interpretation of the lyrics might offer some insight. I sat in front of my mirror and looked at myself. Really stared into my own eyes. What did I see? What was I afraid of? Who was this woman staring back at me?

I knew something needed to change in a big way. My job was wearing down my confidence and it felt like my soul was dissolving. I didn’t recognize myself.

I listened to this song every day during my commute to and from work. It sunk into my blood. This particular phrase playing louder in my mind.

Its message spoke to me; invited me to look at myself openly and honestly. The one area of my life I wasn’t happy with was overpowering and affecting every other part of my life. My friends were tired of hearing my complaints and I was oh-so-tired of complaining and feeling small.

I didn’t want to become a bitter, stressed-out person. I didn’t want to miss out on life. I didn’t want to be embarrassed by my own reflection. I didn’t want to shrink away and make excuses for myself and my unhappiness.

“If you look at your reflection, is it all you want it to be?”

No. I wanted to be more. I wanted to walk in honesty and truth from my innermost core. And I wanted every aspect of my life to reflect that—not just one or two areas.

“And if you could look right through the cracks, would you find yourself afraid to see?”

No. I’m not afraid of myself and who I am. I will stand strong and walk through my fears and hesitations, becoming all I want to be.

I realized that, in fact, I wasn’t afraid to see; that the “elaborate dream” I was living in could change. I welcomed the sight of my uncertainties and my misery because it’s exactly what was motivating me to act. I’d been on automatic pilot, assuming someone else knew how to drive my life. I’d thought that maybe everyone else knew better than me, and I was missing some vital information.

But no. As my eyes opened into this new consciousness, I knew I was the only one qualified and trained to drive my own life (duh). It scared me. I was disappointed I hadn’t taken action before. I was mad at myself for falling asleep at the wheel.

The message got into my bloodstream and into my heart. My desire to change things began to outweigh my fear of losing an income and being seen as a failure in my corporate job.

***

I have long held the belief that change is always a possibility when things aren’t going well. We can look around, see new paths and take action. The problem is that our awareness of the possibilities can so often narrow when we’re unhappy and stuck in a rut of routine and expectation.

When I heard this song, listened to the lyrics and asked myself these questions, a door opened. And then another. I could see a little clearer and my options expanded. The fog started to lift and possibilities emerged.

The importance I’d placed on my job began to disintegrate. My strength grew. Each time I heard the song, my confidence in the truth I’d known all along, yet was afraid to face, grew with it. I became excited and more interested in what life had in store for me around the corner.

It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, over the days and months that followed that fall road trip. Each day of greater clarity fed my soul. The following spring, I quit my job. I didn’t have a set plan, but knew I needed the time away from the stress and pressure to find a career I loved.

***

Change—even the good kind of change we choose—is hard. It’s challenging. There are moments we question and second-guess ourselves, wondering if the past wasn’t better; that maybe we’d made a mistake.

Yet when we keep our eyes open; keep asking ourselves the difficult questions; keep looking into our own mirrors at who we are; we grow and expand and create a vast space of acceptance and beauty.

***

reference:

“what if everything around you isn’t quite as it seems?

what if all the world you think you know, is an elaborate dream?

and if you look at your reflection is it all you want it to be?

what if you could look right through the cracks? would you find yourself… find yourself afraid to see?”

– exerpt from the song, “Right Where You Belong,” by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails

When you look out over a wide vista, what do you see? Strong and stately mountains? An ocean, smooth and glassy? Or a winter wonderland of soft snow blanketing your city?

I went hiking the other day along a ridge line I’ve often admired while walking along the beach at Hanalei Bay. The rise of the earth above the river with the sheer cliffs and lush green trees beckoned. The scene resembling a live Hawaiian postcard of paradise.

We parked at the trailhead and began to hike up (and up and up). I imagined myself walking right into that postcard of perfection. Then there were the mosquitos, and the dead, rotting branches and the smell of rotting fruit. The trail itself was slick with mud, quickly caking layers onto my shoes.

Postcards don’t show the humidity of those lush, green, tropical forests. They don’t show the hard work it requires of your heart to climb a steep hillside for two miles. They don’t include the pungent odor of wet earth.

Yet it was beautiful. And it was real. It wasn’t perfect and yet my smile and energy and enthusiasm only grew as we continued hiking.

***

Along the trail, toward the top, I noticed a bright burst of pink peeking through the foliage. I sped up, intrigued, to investigate. It turned out to be something I (as a mainlander) had never seen on a hike before: an orchid—growing wild.

My perception of orchids is of carefully maintained and nurtured perfection. I look at an orchid in a flower shop, or at a wedding, and I think about the fragility of the petals and the attention needed to make the blooms so velvety and symmetrical.

Yet here were orchids growing wild. (Of course all things in nature have an origin, but I’d never given much thought as to where orchids came from; where they might show up on their own.) They are wild, pristine and stately flowers thriving in the midst of these island forests.

From the beach, looking at the postcard image, I hadn’t imagined this small bloom would greet me with such beauty (and I certainly couldn’t see it from so far away).

I leaned closer into the orchid to get a picture. There, on one of the petals, was a brown spot. Gasp! An imperfection on what I had formerly seen as absolute perfection. And yet, to me, it seemed so much more beautiful and alive.

The way I see it, nature’s perfection is in her imperfections. Our lesson is to realize this, extrapolate the concept, and embrace it for ourselves. We, as humans (and our lives), are perfectly imperfect.

So look again at the postcard-perfect image before you.

Go hiking, surfing, or snowshoeing and immerse yourself in that vista. Look around and notice the irregularities; the dead leaves; the broken branch; the ding on your surfboard and the shells kicking up and swirling around at the bottom of the sea.

How do they add to the beauty? To the experience? What would it be like if everything was indeed perfect? Would we be missing something?

I appreciate the variances and the uniqueness of how imperfections add to the character of a scene. I think about myself, my friends, and my community and am grateful for our imperfections and how they add balance and originality to the world around me.

Our life, in all its wild variations, truly is like beauty in nature: perfectly imperfect.

the Na Pali coast

Awe.

I read a quote in the August 2009 issue of Oprah recently. It was a parenthetical comment. An aside. It struck me as the most important thing I’d read in the entire magazine and it made me think.

On page 96, Gabrielle LeBlanc wrote:

Awe, it seems, influences people to act on behalf of the greater good.

What a bold statement. I’ve been mulling it over in my mind for awhile, asking myself, what is it about the feeling and experience of awe that would have such an influence? And was it true? And if it’s true, what causes it?

Newport Beach sunset

It feels true. It resonates with my own experiences. I think about the times I’ve felt awe. Sometimes it strikes me while listening to music, reading a poem or particularly poetic prose, or in a photograph or illustration. But mostly I find awe—I feel awe—in nature.

In the mountains. Looking out over the wide expanse of ocean as powerful waves rock the shoreline.

Colorado mountains

Utah desert

Hawaiian surf

I feel it when I run under a canopy of rhododendron or through the white barks of aspen trees, hearing the leaves rustle in the wind.

My mind opens. Colors are brighter and smells are more distinct and pungent. I feel a greater sense of awareness—of my surroundings; of my thoughts; of the bigness of the world around me.

infinite bliss

When I am in nature, I am grounded. I feel connected in a larger-than-life way. I can’t explain it, but my heart fills. I want to drink in the scene and wrap it around me like a cozy blanket on a chilly winter evening. I breathe deep.

I feel the power of the whole and I recognize my interconnectedness with others (both in my immediate community and those across the globe, thousands of miles away).

I think this is what LeBlanc meant. This feeling we get when awe fills us up from the inside. We want to share its bigness, show others how beautiful and sublime our universe is.

Long's Peak from Mt. Audubon

My energy expands. I feel peace. I feel motivated to be better. I step out of myself and see beyond the problems or worries that seemed so huge just a moment ago.

I used to think awe was a luxury. It was something you only felt on special occasions. As an adult, I realize it’s essential.

Joshua Tree Nat'l Park, California desert

I have chosen to surround myself with the opportunity to experience a bit of awe every day. To drink in nature’s art. To experience first hand her grace and depth.

a lone orchid along the Na Pali coast, Kaua'i

It never gets old. It never gets tired or overplayed. It sinks deeper under my skin and into my being. This awe. This grace. The desire to grow and expand. The motivation to contribute to my world and those in it.

Kalihiwai Bay, Kaua'i

I breathe in the view before me. My heart opens and I smile.

The first thing I tweeted was: #10yearsago I had never run a mile in my life, couldn’t hike uphill w/o taking a rest every 5 mins & sanitas too 3 hrs to complete.

Then I remembered that I thought climbing was crazy and had sworn I’d never do it.

So I thought it would be a fun exercise to look back at 1999 and think about where I was and what I was doing in 1999 and into 2000.

10 years ago:

• I thought swimming 15 laps in a pool was a good workout.
• I didn’t like seafood. Or spicy food. Or interesting food. Or any food that wasn’t a carb or meat.
• I was living with a boyfriend that wasn’t incredibly healthy for me (or him).
• I was singing with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra Chorus.
• I was working at a nursing home (as an Activity Director), burning out as a music therapist.
• I got winded hiking up a trail and usually stopped every 5 minutes to rest.
• I thought digital cameras produced inferior quality images and didn’t see the point of owning one.
• I drove a Dodge Neon.
• I didn’t know trail running was a sport.
• I didn’t know much about the sport of climbing and thought “those people” were crazy.
• I enjoyed snowboarding on greens and easy blue runs a few times a year.
• I sewed a lot of crafts and things.
• I was living in Littleton.
• I didn’t know what perseverance felt like.

What I didn’t know 10 years ago:

• That fresh sushi is about the best food in the world.
• That climbing up a mountain was exhilarating and freeing. And that I could do it.
• That my body was capable of developing muscles.
• That my body was capable of running. At all, much less long distances.
• That I would be competing in triathlons, marathons, trail runs and loving it.
• That I would work in corporate America and go on business trips that involved good meals and a passport.
• That I would meet amazing people who would teach me about true friendship, trust, support and total and full acceptance of who I am.
• That I would meet, befriend and fall in love and marry an amazing man.
• That I would climb 16 14ers and run up one of them (three times!).
• That I would learn what a harness and carabiner were and then use them on real rock.
• That I would fall in love with running and climbing so deeply.
• That I would find a passion and turn it into a career that involved the outdoors, fitness and helping others learn and find that passion.
• That food tastes really good with heat and spice added in.

I think the biggest thing I didn’t know in 1999 was that I was an athlete. I ran for the first time in March of 2000. Thinking back on all that I’ve experienced, tried, and accomplished in the world of sport and outdoor activity over the past 10 years I’m pretty amazed I fit it all in.

The journey and discovery of that hidden strength opened up so many other doors and perspectives for my world.

I anticipate the next 10 years will open up and reveal even more. I’m ready.

Where were you 10 years ago? What’s changed? What surprised you? What’s coming next?

Along with a few specific goals I set for myself (like flossing my teeth and eating my vegetables… both of which, I’m happy to report, saw an increase in activity throughout 2009), each December I think about a word or two that encompasses what the year ahead means to me.

2008 was a year of risk and wonder. 2009 was a year of creating possibility and abundance. As I write this post, my 2010 words are rising to the surface.

my writing goals for amelia carolyn
I realized when reading about the goals I’d set for my blog, I didn’t take my own advice. I didn’t revisit my goals and take time to reassess and revise them. And this December, I’m in a similar place with my writing and blogging goals as I was last December. I have made small steps, but none big enough to allow me to say, “I’ve met my goal.”

I haven’t achieved the frequency or discipline in my writing or posting that I’d set out for myself. And I know that had I read my goals again throughout the year, I would have made some changes. I might have made them a little more realistic considering the life changes I embarked on in 2009. I may have laid out smaller steps.

Writing is a huge part of my life and my dreams. I love the process and clarity I get when I write. And there have been small advances towards my stated goals to blog more and to write with more discipline (and less of writing only “as the mood strikes”). But I have work to do.

Luckily, I don’t believe 2009 was the only pocket of time where that particular goal could thrive. 2009 was a busy year. Lots of pretty big life changes happened in 2009 that took time and energy. In 2010, my writing will become more defined and frequent. I will have more purpose and more substance to my thoughts and posts.

So what took up so much of my energy and focus in 2009, you ask?

what a year!
Here’s a recap of my 2009 experiences:

I got married. July 25 was a fairy-tale day. The weekend filled with family and friends from all over the country was a magical weekend. The 11 months of planning that went into that weekend was exciting, challenging and filled with emotion.

crested butte, co

I ran. A lot. My running season was unexpectedly amazing and awesome. I entered and completed two ultra marathons. The Moab Red Hot 50+K and the Collegiate Peaks 50 miler. I also ran my best Pike’s Peak Marathon three weeks after the wedding and enjoyed a few other fun and challenging trail runs (the Golden Gate Dirty Thirty in June, the Gothic Crested Butte Third Marathon and the Barr Trail Mountain Race in July).

moab red hot 50k+

collegiate peaks 50 mile trail run

pike's peak marathon

I moved to a new state, into a new home, with my new husband. In September I sold my car and began packing. At the beginning of October, we moved all our furniture and most of our possessions into storage. Then Bracken and I moved to the island of Kaua’i, in Hawaii. We have been housed by the generosity of amazing friends and are still adjusting to the experience of reality in paradise.

polihale state park, kaua'i

sea turtle in poipu, kaua'i

sunset at hanalei bay, kaua'i

I embarked on a journey toward a new career and subsequent new business. In September, I became a student at the International Coach Academy, based in Melbourne, Australia. I will graduate in 2010 with a Professional Coaching Certification. I will be a life coach working in the outdoor and fitness industry helping others integrate fitness and sport into their lives. I plan on concentrating on “late-bloomers” like me who are new to sports and fitness and need education and motivation on how to get started and what to expect throughout the journey. (Stay tuned for more information coming in 2010.)

I played. I summited two 14ers (Antero for my annual birthday climb) and Pike’s Peak. I climbed. I bouldered. I ran. I bought a mountain bike and began to learn. I took up surfing. I began a yoga journey (going six times a week).

looking towards the summit of mt. antero

my new mountain bike on the 401 in crested butte

my new surfboard

I began to explore the kitchen. I enjoyed a few cooking lessons. I shopped at the Farmer’s Market. I observed and participated in the cooking process. I plan to write more on this, but for me, enjoying nutrition and preparing meals is a foreign, enticing concept.

an abundance of possibility
Has 2009 truly been a year of possibility and abundance? Definitely. I didn’t make a lot of money as I’d hoped, but I began to build a solid foundation for a new career. The abundance came in the form of love. Of community. Of grace and compassion (from others, mind you… I’m still working on that ‘have compassion for yourself’ mantra). An abundance of experiences, of emotion, of newness.

Possibility seems harder to pin down. Yet it feels like the possibilities presented to me, and the experiences I’ve had this past year, have themselves, been abundant: surprising myself at the Pike’s Peak marathon and placing in my age group; moving to a small island in the middle of the Pacific, miles from anything familiar; exploring a new career and life calling; writing on a variety of topics and experiences.

Life feels wide open in front of me. And maybe that’s what possibility looks like. Vast and open and free.

a year of promise
2010 promises to be a full year. The words that come to mind when I think of all that’s on the horizon for me are words like: grounding. integration. expansion. maybe this is the year for compassion? emergence. discovery. motion.

What’s in store for me? What do I have planned? Lots of goodness and awesome. As much as 2009 was a year of new things and beginnings, it was also a year of building foundations. It was a year where I consciously and deliberately worked to set up a foundation that will support big things to come. Those things may appear in 2010, or 2046. I just don’t know, but I’m building and I’m creating and I’m nurturing my world for my present and my future.

In 2010 my marriage will still be new. We will be exploring the newness and integrating each other deeper into our lives, becoming stronger partners in this life together. We’ll spend time building the framework for our future; our communication; our finances; our habits and preferences. We’ll be sharing our love through the ordinary and mundane, as well as the awesome and magnificent. Or maybe it’s more like we’ll learn to recognize the magnificence hidden in the ordinary. Solidifying our union to stay strong and sure through the many changes and journeys that are ahead of us as individuals and together.

In 2010 my company will launch. And with that, I dream of introducing others (and creating within them) a life-long love affair with the outdoors. I plan on learning a lot more. I plan on putting myself out there and introducing myself to others so they know who I am, and what my mission and goals are (and hopefully by that, I can reach even more people).

In 2010 we plan to return to the mainland, with a good bit of surfing under our belts, to embark on a year-long road trip around the U.S. to climb, mountain bike and run through our country’s celebrated and hidden gems.

In 2010 I want to surf tougher, climb stronger, run longer and bike with enthusiasm (with a little bit of badass thrown in to the mix).

I want to write. A lot. (In my journal; for my personal blog; for my professional blog.) I want to write a book or two (maybe just a short one to begin).

I want to smile more often and connect deeper. I want to love generously, with compassion and grace. I want to walk in confidence and recognize my strengths and gifts, sharing them with the world.

So my words for 2010? Integration and joy seem to resonate with my insides.

Integrating my marriage, my home-within-myself, and my new career into my future. Consolidating my thoughts and ideas onto paper and out into the world. Merging my passion for the outdoors into a career that inspires and motivates others to fall in love with nature.

Joy for the energy and momentum I’m experiencing in my life. Happiness in the simple and humble. Exhilaration in the challenges and transitions ahead. And a childlike exuberance for the travel adventure I’ve dreamed of for many years.

I raise a toast to 2010: A year of integration and joy. Cheers!

Action does not need to be physical.

I am an active woman. I enjoy moving. I enjoy the physicality of being in the world. I enjoy touching and feeling things as I learn about them. I have to do to really feel I understand. I love the feeling of my heart racing after a good workout. I love the feeling of joy when my body moves with grace and precision.

But for me—and this is what I’ve realized—sometimes the mental work I do is just (if not more?) important.

The past couple of weeks I’ve been feeling pretty overwhelmed, displaced and missing the familiarity of Colorado (despite the frigid temps I’ve been hearing about). Yoga has been feeling more and more of an obligation. Surfing was creating anxiety and I found myself questioning “why?”

Why do I want to surf? What’s so cool about it? It’s hard. I suck. It’s cold and getting colder. Why did I commit to six days a week of Bikram yoga? My body hurts. It’s in the middle of the day.

I struggled and fought with myself for days. I made myself go to yoga. I went to the beach and cried when my friends went out in the waves and I stayed back, feeling like a complete wimp and failure.

So I stopped. I skipped yoga one day. I stayed home and worked all day. I didn’t go surfing. I read and napped on the beach. I journaled about my confusion, trying to understand the contradicting voices in my head: “i love surfing”; “i don’t want to go into the water to surf.”

I filled pages in my journal. I explored the questions swirling around in the morass that can be my brain when I get overwhelmed.

I stopped doing. I skipped yoga again two days this week. I went to the beach and absolutely loved watching my friends surf. And through the journaling, watching my friends, and reconnecting to the water mentally, I realized that my love of the sport of surfing hadn’t died (whew!). I do want to put forth the effort required to do it well. (Or, since the learning curve is so exasperatingly slow, somewhat competently.) I do want to be in the water, tumbling into waves lost and finding my balance as the wave moves under me.

I think if I’d continued to force myself to “just get out there and do it”; or pushed myself to keep up my yoga streak of six days a week, I’d be so worn down that none of it would be fun anymore. And I believe in fun. I believe in the power of the connection between our minds and our bodies. It’s a powerful connection that can hide itself if we’re not aware.

If we’re not aligned, we lose sight of the fun. We lose sight of our motivation and our purpose in the doing. Doing for doing’s sake gets boring and exhausting.

So my realization tonight, as I think about my morning yoga class and my late afternoon surf session, is that my break was needed. Mental action is often vital to keeping our love of physical action balanced and in check. In fact, I may go so far as to say that breaks are not only needed, but essential.

I am smiling tonight and feeling worked. My back hurts. My legs and arms are feeling jelly-like and I am smiling and feeling good.

For those of you who don’t know, MS has long been described and categorized as a neurological disease. You can read more here. The article my friend sent features a doctor from Italy, Dr. Paolo Zamboni, a former vascular surgeon who has been researching MS for the past 10 years.

It seems he has discovered a trait common in every MS patient he’s tested: A narrowing of particular veins in the neck or chest that are responsible for carrying blood out of the brain.* The theory is that, because of the narrowing, it creates a blockage that prevents the blood from draining as well as it should. Thus causing the heavy metals that are in our bloodstream to get stuck in the brain and form deposits, creating the lesions in the brain that are the telltale sign of MS.

Veins. Not nerves. Not wiring in the brain. It’s a very new theory and one that is in the beginning stages of research, but it’s exciting to think that this might be the breakthrough so many have been waiting for. And although MS is a cause near and dear to my heart, this post isn’t really about MS or this discovery (amazing though it is).

It’s about possibility.

It’s about remembering that we so often get stuck in the comfort zones of our own realities. “I’m a realist” we hear (or say). “This is the truth,” we tell ourselves. But is it really? Isn’t is just the truth as we know it? Why don’t we ask ourselves if our truth is the only truth? If truth and reality can’t be altered. Why do we believe truth is static?

It’s common knowledge that MS is a debilitating disease and that it’s progressive and degenerative—and neurological. Ah, but maybe not, right?

We create our own realities and our own sense of how the world works. It’s taught to us in school; we learn it from our parents, our leaders, and the society in which we grow up. I believe in the power of the mind and how what we think, so often becomes. It can be a scary thought, but it’s also one that challenges the status quo.

If we’re not happy, we can change—whether it’s our circumstances, our attitude, or our perspective (or all three)—we can change. When I heard this news Monday morning, I was skeptical. I asked a lot of questions about it as my friend was talking. I wanted to know more about the research, the approach, the results. And I felt relief and growing excitement as my questions were answered as I watched the videos and read the article. It seemed more and more possible that this man had dared to think differently and acted on his curiousity and found something that worked. He may have changed the world for many, many people. I still hesitate to think that this is “it.” That it’s the cure for MS.

But it has opened my heart and showed me how narrow-minded I’ve been. And it’s making me wonder what else I believe to be “real” and a “realistic perspective” that might actually be narrow and limiting.

It’s refreshing and humbling to remember that even in the face of the most devastating circumstances, there is possibility. In the most mundane of circumstances, there is possibility. Let’s remember that even when something seems impossible or false, there is the possibility that we—the collective—are mistaken. And then the possibilities to explore and expand our truths are wide open before us.

What is possible for you today?

*as I am not a doctor or researcher, my account of this discovery comes solely from the videos and article linked at the beginning of my post. My intent is to paraphrase the basic details to encourage further research and reading (and to tie into the subject of my post).

I hobbled out of the water to the sand and sat down to examine my foot. It hurt. A lot. A dull, throbbing pain began to course through my foot. I saw weeks—maybe months—of surfing disappear before me. I thought about yoga and balancing on a foot I couldn’t put weight on. It didn’t seem likely that I’d be moving around anytime soon.

I cried. Some because I was frustrated. And a lot because I was so utterly disappointed.

I’d waffled about going into the water at 5:00 in the evening. I get cold easily and the sun was going down. I didn’t feel like my mind was totally engaged. But I shook off the feelings, knowing how much I want to keep working at this new sport and with the intention of not giving in to my fearful, hesitant, and admittedly-sometimes-wimpy side.

And now, here I was, one wave into my session, sidelined. Certainly for the evening, but quite possible for months.

frustration settles in
It’s so easy to indulge in the pity party that accompanies an injury like this. When it’s not clear how bad it is, we tend to envision the worst.

I figured I’d broken it, or suffered a severe sprain. As I gingerly hobbled back to the car with my board and bag, I thought of all the stuff I’ve been wanting to do: get some hikes in, start running again, surf, walk the bay, window shop through town… the list goes on. I watched my friends try to walk slowly beside me, only to quickly end up far ahead. It’s hard to match the pace of one walking barely faster than a slug. Ugh.

My tears came and went. Every movement sent a sharp pain or dull throb through my foot. I snapped at something someone said. I lost some grace along with my patience. And then I felt embarrassed and bad for losing my cool.

All I wanted to do when we got home was clean up and then curl up in a ball with ice on my foot and cry.

small victories
I had two choices that evening: indulge my private pity party at home, or go out and have fun with new friends. I will admit at the time it was a tough choice. Sometimes I’m simply not fit to be around other humans.

But I knew we were all a little on edge and I figured that getting out of the house might just be the thing we needed to turn the energy around.

And what a good idea it was! The entertainment was fun and the company good for getting my mind off myself and what I might be missing in the coming weeks. I was still thinking about my foot, but it was a good (and much-needed reminder) that I can still have fun despite a set-back. That life continues to move forward even when we want to stop and get off the ride for awhile.

a choice in perception
That night I made up my mind to go to yoga the next day. I knew it might not be a good idea, and I knew I may very likely end up doing nothing for the 90-minute class, but I wanted to see. I wanted to know the extent of the injury. I knew there were at least a few postures I could do. And there was also the fact that my hip had just started to open up. I could feel my flexibility increasing and I wasn’t ready to give up on that too easily.

(And frankly speaking, I was really hoping I’d wake up pain-free with the realization I’d over-blown the injury.)

I wasn’t so fortunate. After a night of tossing and turning with constant, dull pain, I woke up with more pain and stiffness all along the top of the arch. I couldn’t bend my toes up or put any weight on the inside of the foot. What was yoga going to look like?

I prepared myself for the very likely chance that I’d leave in the middle of the class. I laid my mat down by the door (for a quiet exit), talked with the instructor about my injury and had brought along my journal and book, ready to pass the time as I waited for my friends to finish class.

the mind of the curious
During the initial breathing, I thought about the class. I thought about feeling frustrated, and then I thought about my overall goals for not only yoga, but for being here in Hawaii. A big part of this trip is about restoration and nurture. I wanted to heal myself and at the same time, accept that things we don’t want to happen, sometimes do, despite our best intentions.

It’s how we respond to the bad stuff that defines our future, right? I decided in that moment that I wanted a good future based on my present situation. I asked myself, “What can I learn from this? What can I get out of this particular class, on this particular day?”

I adopted a curious mind and thought about what I could learn about my foot. How bad was it? How much range of motion and flexibility did I really have? I wasn’t too worried about over doing it. (I’m pretty aware of my physical body and my boundaries for pain, and tend to err on the side of caution.) Sometimes that trait gets in the way of progressing. Today, it served me well as I took it slow, held back and explored the pain.

I learned so many new things. There were moments of defeat when I realized I couldn’t do certain balancing postures and when my foot began to ache and throb too much from standing on it. But I was able to do far more in the class than I’d thought.

It’s only one foot after all. I have many other parts to my body that are in perfect working order. And with the help of my right foot, I was able to maintain a good balance between both feet for the initial postures.

During the first posture I was unable to do fully, I poured my concentration into my arms. (Awkward pose, for those of you familiar with Bikram. It’s the one that requires you to stand on your toes—and THAT definitely wasn’t going to happen.) The instructors are always saying to “lengthen the arms; hold them strong; maintain active muscles in the triceps.” In previous classes, I always work so hard to get my feet and balance right, that my arms are the last things I think about.

Yet here I was, given the opportunity to focus solely on the arms and core muscles. And it stunned me to realize I’d been using very little of my muscles there (or in my core). So much of my posture relied on my legs.

Ah-ha, I realized. I can still come to class and work on my arms until my foot heals.

I was reminded of the foundation. The platform upon which I am building my life. It begins with the smallest of movements. An observation here and there of the little things.

I imagined that process to be similar to what happens when someone builds a house. They check the angles of the construction and the materials they’re building with to make sure the house is stable and built to last.

It couldn’t hurt to check my materials. To make sure my muscles were engaged and moving forward with determination and strength. To align my mind with patience and clarity of direction.

My curiosity found new areas for growth and a newfound patience with myself. I found some creativity in seeking modifications for postures to get the stretch I wanted, but avoiding pain.

i admit the ugly
It’s certainly not an easy process for me. I will admit that I wanted to cry and feel sorry for myself. I wanted to move quickly and efficiently and am at my best when I am physically in motion. I wanted to talk about it and mention it to everyone I see. I wanted sympathy and kind words.

at peace
As I sit here with ice on my foot, thinking about the day, I am reminded that I am strong; that it’s a set-back, and not the end of the world. I know I will recover, and know that if it’s a slow recovery, then it’s a slow recovery. In the meantime, I will cherish the slower pace. I will pay attention to the smaller aspects of life that add up and give nourishment for a richer life ahead.

As in yoga, it is practice—A practice of patience and openness to what life presents us. A chance to relax into our lives, no matter what it looks like at the moment, and to trust in change and progress. It’s a practice to remember that within each setback, be it disappointment , injury, heartache or pain, there is growth, renewal and room for exploration and discovery.

In class, I chose to be curious. Curious as to how my body would respond to yoga. Curious to see if I could stand strong and accept the new, unhurried pace I walk and move through my days.

Our perceptions are so often within our control. How we choose to see and approach our world leads us into our future. The lesson isn’t new, but it’s always harder to put into practice. So I’m curious, what new perception will you explore today?

Along with Stuart on the call, we had myself, Carlos, Mike (@dirtdawg50k), Matt (@rundigger), and Erin (@erin337).

You can download or listen to the audio of the podcast here (the 10.28.09 episode) or here.

One of the topics we covered that I find fascinating was the “how.” How do we do it? How do you stand at the start line of a 100 mile run, or 140.6-mile triathlon and actually begin?

increments of time
We all agreed that it’s overwhelming and difficult to stand at the start and think about what we’re about to do. But thinking in smaller steps—increments of time and milestones—makes it far more manageable. For some, it’s about making it from aid station to aid station, one at a time.

For me, it’s a variety of techniques. I definitely break my races down, but I don’t have a consistent system. (I think it actually makes it better to switch it up a bit… fools the mind just a little more.)

I’ve broken down races by mileage (“only a 10k left to run”), by aid stations (“only 2 more aid stations left” or “after this aid station, it’s all downhill”), and when I’m running on a familiar trail, by terrain (“I’m at the first steep part, and just after this it’ll be a rolling 5 miles before we go down”).

For the swim portion in my last triathlon it was buoy to buoy. (Word of caution: don’t go swimming for the first time in a wetsuit you haven’t worn in three years after building climbing muscles… the wetsuit might not fit and you might not be able to breathe while you’re swimming.)

For the Pike’s Peak marathon I considered it two separate races: one uphill and one downhill. This was really effective. I wasn’t prepared for the race and simply tried to have fun on the run. Breaking it up into two half-marathons with very different personalities was extremely helpful for me.

For the Collegiate Peaks 50-mile trail run, it was a combination of aid stations (only 6 miles to the next one), weather patterns (the clouds are breaking… the view of the snow-capped 14ers in the distance is breath-taking), hills (7 miles downhill to the turnaround and then another 7 miles up), the half-way point (time to change my costume for something cooler), food intake (every 45 mins to an hour I try to eat), and mileage.

It helps to talk to other runners every now and then along the way. It helps to focus on the movement and the steps you’re taking. It helps to remember to smile and have fun (‘cause that’s why we’re doing this, right?). It helps to notice the scenery; the flowers and trees and views. It helps to remember that I’ll finish faster if I run when I want to walk. It helps to simply remember that all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other.

applying small steps in other areas of life
Bikram yoga used to feel looooong. The postures were held for a long time. My pain lasted throughout the pose and it often felt like it was never going to end.

Now, after running a few ultra races and long training runs, I have noticed my mind breaks down the series of postures. Only four postures after the initial breathing and I can have a sip of water. Only three balancing postures before I get to my favorite stretch. Only two more postures until we begin the floor series.

Each set is broken down in my mind. It happened without me thinking about it. It somehow, and quite simply, became easier. The 90 minutes goes by quickly. I feel more present for each posture. I notice each breath more often.

Endurance. I didn’t think it would translate so effectively to other areas of my life. But now I know. When I break things down, I notice more. I am conscious of the path and the journey. The milestones are spaced a shorter distance apart. They come more quickly and allow me to pay attention to what’s happening now, because I’m not so worried about how long it’s going take.

My mind shifts into a space of comfort and steadiness. There is time to breathe.

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.