October 19, 2009

magical places

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, reflections, setting goals, trail running, transitions | Tags: , , , |
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Mt. Sanitas

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

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

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

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.

 

October 14, 2009

distilling fear

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, surfing | Tags: , , |
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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

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

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.

 

October 1, 2009

finding home

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, transitions | Tags: , , |
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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.

 

September 17, 2009

defining moments: no regrets

Posted by Amy C under defining moments, life experiences | Tags: , , , |
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This is my third essay in my defining moments series. My defining moments are those moments in our lives that have caused us to think in a new way. A moment when our perspective changed in how we see the world and/or others. I’ve had many of these such moments throughout my years, and will, in no particular order, share them here at amelia carolyn, in hopes of inspiring others to think about their own defining moments and how they effect our lives. (You can read the first essays here and here.)

no regrets
 The particular moment I want to share today happened when I was about 8 years old. Earlier that year, I met my mom’s best friends father, Mr. Patten. He was a kind, elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. He was particularly kind to me, especially when he learned how much I liked clowns.

We chatted for awhile, and then he went upstairs brought down something his wife had made years ago. It was love at first sight.

It was a handmade clown. The body, arms and legs were small, hand-sewn circles of fabric from scraps of old quilts strung together (think candy necklaces), with small jingle bells at the ends of each arm and leg.  The face, white, had the classic red markings of a pierrot clown, and a smile on his face that invited secrets to be shared.

Mr. Patten told me that his wife had made it with love, and he wanted me to have it. I instantly named him Clown Jingles. Mr. Patten and I became fast friends.

Back home, I wanted to find a way to let him know how Clown Jingles was doing. I wrote him a letter. He wrote back. His letters were written in print with big letters and on subjects that were interesting to my 8-year-old self. We exchanged letters over the next few months. And then, as happens when you’re eight, I got distracted by other things. School, friends, Strawberry Shortcake… I stopped writing to Mr. Patten.

But I didn’t stop thinking about him. I missed our correspondence and friendship. I hugged Clown Jingles close every night. Time just slipped away. I’d write to him soon.

And then one day at school I decided that “today was the day.” I resolved to go home and write Mr. Patten a letter. Lots had been happening and I had things to tell him. I skipped into the house and announced to my mom that I was going to go in my room and do that very thing. Her entire body language shifted and in that instant, I knew something was wrong. I knew I’d missed him.

Mr. Patten had passed away that morning.

I realized in that moment that time doesn’t stop for us. Things happen that we don’t always expect or want.

I resolved that day to not let time get away from me again; to do the things I’d planned on doing without procrastinating or missing them. I didn’t ever want to experience that feeling of regret again.

As with most resolutions, this one isn’t easy. I haven’t nailed down the secret to taking advantage of each and every moment. And I still procrastinate and let time slip by every now and again. But the message is constantly in my mind and in my heart. My intention toward the resolution stays strong, and I’d like to think that I’m more successful than not, in letting my loved ones know how much I love them and how much they mean to me.

It was a tough lesson for an 8-year-old, but one I cherish and appreciate.

 

September 10, 2009

taking in the moment

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, observations, setting goals, transitions | Tags: , , , |
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being.

Sometimes I find it hard to simply (and consciously and deliberately) “be” without thinking about where I just was, or where I’d like my life to be tomorrow, or in a week or maybe in five years from now. It’s hard not to think about what might make it (whatever my present reality is) better—even if I’m currently really happy with it.

Over coffee in the back garden of Espressoria the other morning, my good friend and I were talking about my upcoming plans to move to Hawaii for six months this winter. It’ll be the first time in my life I’ve moved somewhere without a set plan on where I’m staying or exactly how long I’ll be there. I think about the adjustment. I think about the challenges and the newness of it all. I think about the adventure and about experiencing this together with my (new, yay!) husband.

Our conversation began to center around a conundrum we all seem to face (similar to “the grass is always greener” and “you always want what you can’t have”) of wanting what we used to have or what we see as “better” or “easier.” There’s the flexibility vs. structure continuum. Those with 8-5 jobs yearn for the freedom to set their own schedules and go play when they want to; those with flexible jobs yearn for more structure so they know when to stop working and can go play without a sense of guilt for not working.

Sick vs. healthy (or more often in my world, the injured vs. healthy) is another one I’m often faced with. Healthy but unmotivated or tired, I think about the rest one gets from being sick or injured (the kind that forces your body to slow down). And when I’m sick or hurt, all I want to do is get out of the house and go running, or clean or do something.

It’s hard to find a balance, and sometimes I wonder if it’s really balance I’m after. Maybe it’s simply the ability to accept what is. I appreciate the ups and downs of my life. I love the feeling when things are going well; when the energy is flowing and things feel good. And when they’re not, I find a renewed appreciation and gratitude for those good times and try to take advantage of the extra down time to rest the body and the mind.

So here’s my Thursday morning musing and thought … I am happy to be. Right now. Today. At 9:17am. And in each moment, I will remember that whereever I am, I am good. Life is good. And by wishing and dreaming too much about what isn’t, I’m missing what is.

I have a feeling that I will need to remember this over and over again… but over time, I know it’ll get easier. With more experience and with more wisdom, I can be a little more often each day.

 

July 21, 2009

the space between

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, observations, transitions | Tags: , , , |
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the space between
We seem to be a society that “does” a lot. We work. We socialize. We recreate. Yet sometimes it seems we don’t do much between the doing—whatever it is we’re doing. It’s constant movement.

I talk a lot on this blog about being conscious of our lives and being present for them, and making decisions with our eyes open and with meaning.

It matters what we do between our “doings.” It matters that in music, we rest. The silences between the notes and rhythms accent, prepare and complement the notes themselves.

It matters that we stretch and eat right between running, or biking or any other type of physical activity. Stretching our legs and gaining core strength decreases our risk of injury and works to ensure we’ll be active for years.

It matters that we take time for ourselves between relationships and careers. Taking the time to review our mistakes and get to know and reconnect with our inner selves can solidify our sense of self and place in the world, thereby bringing forth a stronger, more confident self into the next chapter.

The space between matters.

expectations and breath
I (and our society at large) seem to have internal expectations that we must always be “doing something” in order to be successful. Leisure time is wasting time, right? I disagree. I’ve heard the “you can sleep when you’re dead” mantra before and wonder how it came to be something to value or to look up to. Resting between action is vital to our mental, physical and emotional health.

Pay attention to your next breath. To breathe in, one must breathe out. There is a natural pause when the exchange happens.

space in action
even in action, what we do between our movements and judgments matters. I signed up for a Parkour class a few months ago and the instructor, Ryan, gave us this advice (paraphrased):

Those who are the best at this discipline are constantly scanning their environment and perfecting their movements between the obstacles. It’s what they do to get into the right position before they make a big move, and what they do to land safely after each jump that makes them so good.

peace with inaction
And from this idea, I realize that all the time I’ve taken between jobs… the worries, the frustrations, the time I felt I’d wasted, and the ideas generated are all good things. Because I now realize that when my next career launches in full force, I’ll have scanned my environment; stretched my mind; and I’ll have paused to feel the rhythm of my life. And all of that information I’ve gathered will result in focused energy and knowledge for my next big move.

 

June 15, 2009

stepping into love is like learning to ride a bike

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, mountain biking | Tags: , , , , |
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Imagine, for a moment, what it was like when you learned to ride a bike. You were a little scared, but excited at the same time. There was a future in front of you wide with possibility and adventure.

When the training wheels came off, you got on the saddle with some confidence and a little trepidation. You wobbled and fell. You got back on, yet hesitated. The realization hit that it was gonna take some time.

Eventually, you experienced “the flow” of riding on two wheels. It was exhilarating! Then you wobbled—and fell. You’d tasted it though… that freedom and energy of balancing on two wheels and what it meant.

So you got on again and again. Each time you went a little farther on your own, but something funny happened, right? As soon as you realized you were doing it alone—that no one was holding onto you (they were, in fact, well behind you cheering you on)—you wobbled and fell.

IMG_2914

how is this analogous to love?

There’s something that happens when our cognitive thoughts aren’t connected to our emotional ones. Sometimes (for me, it seems more often than not), our conscious thought gets in the way.

We listen to the fear. We hesitate. We start to believe the voice that tells us it’s dangerous and we might get hurt.

Horrors! Getting hurt? Send me to the bunker now so I can avoid all hurt and pain for the rest of my life! Right. We all know that doesn’t work and frankly, that it’s not at all good for us.

Conscious thinking has its place, for sure. It tells us a stove is hot. It allows us to find north. But when we allow it to overtake our lives, it can have disatrous results.

We stop living.

stepping into love
When we allow ourselves to let go and surrender, our wiser selves are suddenly given room to expand their wings and fly.

We have faith in our ability. We accept the reality that we can do it. We’ve left the training wheels far behind. We realize our freedom.

IMG_2863

Stepping into love is like learning to ride a bike. There’s the excitement mixed with fear. We consciously enter into new territory, with faith in knowing our wise selves are within us. And our partners are beside us.

There are times when we come out of the glow and fog of the cushy feelings of love, and we panic. We think to ourselves, “I might lose my independence” or “What if I get hurt?” or “I don’t want to repeat my mistakes from the past.”  And we wobble. And sometimes we fall. And the beautiful thing is, it’s okay.

We simply need to remember that our partners are there beside us to help brush the dirt off. That despite the wobbling and the sometimes-falling, that it’s fun.

The more comfortable we get, the more risks we’re able (and willing) to take. The faster downhills and technical inclines are suddenly a possibility. Committing to a lifetime together becomes an exciting opportunity to stretch our boundaries and experience deeper emotional connections.

IMG_8385The nature of love requires that we trust—ourselves and our partners. And once we breathe in and accept that faith, we begin to fly. The trail and journey before us opens up, wider and wider.

It’s about integrating the conscious thought with our faith in ourselves. It’s about letting go of our fears and taking the leap of faith—whether it’s a ride without training wheels, a technical and rocky downhill, or being present with the ones we love.

 

June 6, 2009

spring cleaning

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, transitions | Tags: , , |
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IMG_8532Maybe it’s that spring is in the air—this annual season of renewal and growth. The pungent fragrance of roses and lilacs, mingling with fresh pine, linger in the wind. 

 

The past couple of weeks I’ve sensed a growing need to purge: possessions to make room for a new home, a new life shared with a partner along with hibernating emotions from past wounds, and some inner voices to quiet and cease listening to.

 

I wonder if this is purely the spring air, or does my upcoming marriage have anything to do with this sudden need to start anew? My guess is that it’s a little of spring and a lot of a new chapter in my life. 

 

The getting rid of possessions is the easy part, although for me, the more tedious. Garage sales where strangers haggle over your memories; craigslist meetings and coordination, donations to charities you hope will appreciate your old CDs.

 

 

And then there’s the emotional “baggage” to get rid of. (I prefer to believe I have a small carry-on.) It’s been much more difficult to uncover and face old, outdated thoughts and beliefs from my past—recent and long ago.

 

It’s a good feeling… refreshing and cathartic. The thoughts have been nagging me and holding onto a past that I’m now feeling strong enough to let go of. It won’t happen over night, but it’ll happen and I anticipate, come July 25, that I will have created space for energy to devote to a new life as a life partner.

 

I don’t mean to sound dramatic. My fiance and I have definitely started the “purge and combine” process of possessions, habits, energy, etc. that come with the commitment to share our lives and living space.

 

However, the strong motivation to clean, sell, get rid of, have come as a surprise. And the need to reflect, resolve old (and current) hurts and let go of past haunts has risen up rather suddenly and insistently.

 

The ceremony of marriage is ancient, and one I am anticipating with excitement, awe, humility, and a deep sense of commitment. There is something about the act of speaking your promises in front of those who bear witness to your vow that seems pretty amazing to me, and makes it (for lack of a better word) real.

 

It’s time to move forward. I am listening to the voice that’s been whispering its advice to admit failures, apologize to a friend, and (finally) to let go of past resentments and create space to move forward. 

 

I liken it to a snake shedding its skin. The old skin served to protect and shield, yet is old and must go; the new skin is still tender and raw. It continues to grow and generate, revealing beauty and grace.

 

April 15, 2009

life lessons from the trail

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, setting goals, trail running, transitions | Tags: , , , , |
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setting out

I trail run. A lot, it seems, these days. When I started running eight years ago, I tended to dread it. Then I went off-road and found exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for: peace. fun. challenge. patience. and a little bit of zen.

As my life shifted into new territory recently (I moved, left a secure job for an opportunity to find a career I was passionate about, got engaged and started the wedding-planning process), the trails in the foothills of Boulder have been instrumental in helping me focus my energy, maintain a semblance of sanity, and find that ever-elusive balance.

On a recent long run, parallels between the current challenges I was experiencing on that particular trail, and the challenges and fears I was working to overcome in my professional life began to emerge.

Know your goal, but you don’t need to know every little thing about the path you’re on.
We’ve all been there. We want to know exactly where we’re going; how long it’s going to take; what it’s going to look like when we get there; and how we’re going to feel. Some of us are a little less relaxed about this than others, but we’ve all learned the same lesson: Not knowing everything can be good. Why?

Our minds stay open to possibilities and opportunities. We become (and stay) more flexible when things don’t go as planned. A better way to go about it and reach your goal might just appear before you (if you’re looking).

Prepare for your journey, but don’t overdo it.
Remember your first backpacking trip with the 60 lb. pack? Or your first international trip with two (or maybe three) suitcases? You wanted all your comfort items and were determined to have everything you needed on hand “just in case.” I’m guilty.

Make sure you have the essentials dialed in. Your business plan. Knowledge of the product or service you’re offering and an ability to actually articulate it to others. A rain jacket in your pack. Enough food and water (plus a little extra).

But too much weight can, well, weigh you down (I couldn’t help myself). Feeling compelled to have all the “right” materials before officially announcing your new company to the world can leave you with missed opportunities to network and get the word out.

Learn (and trust) that you can start with less and expand as you move forward. Finding that magic balance of supplies, knowledge and gear might take some time, but know that it’ll never be perfect, so get to where it’s “good enough” and go for it. 

It might seem like your goal is far away, but trust in the process of the journey.
It’s closer than you think. I do this all the time when I’m approaching a summit. I stand at the bottom of the trail looking up and think to myself, “I’m never gonna get there.” Yet I make it. And along the way I find myself taking in the smell of the pine needles, the color of new blooms or the sound of crunching snow on the way up.

We’re an impatient species. We seem to shrink away from the tedium of an approach, only to feel depressed when we actually get to the summit. We made it and forgot to enjoy it because we were so concerned we weren’t going to make it. Trust that you’ll get there and remember to be where you are.

Remember to look where you’re going.
Manage the details of your journey, but don’t forget to look up once in awhile. Keep your eye on the rocks and terrain before you, but make sure you remember to stay on trail. When you do look up you’ll notice the brilliance of the sun and the way the wind moves through the trees. It’ll remind you why you’re on this path in the first place.

slow and steady

Take baby steps when you’re going uphill.
It takes less effort than an all-out run and it’s easier to stop. Running uphill is tough. And counterintuitively, it can often take more energy than walking—and be a lot less efficient. The same thing happens when we’re in a tough spot at work.

I know I often over think whatever seems to be going wrong. I invest so much energy into worry and frustration that I forget that sometimes going a little slower is okay. Taking a breath, making time to slow down often ends up saving me time.

We all know it, but stuck in the moment, it’s difficult to remember. When we rush into a tough challenge, we’re at a higher risk for falling down or making a mistake. And those mistakes made at warp speed can be doosies!

Get into the rhythm when you’re going down.
At those moments when things aren’t going well and you know you’re falling, go with the flow. When we try to slow it down, stop or otherwise control momentum, we’re at a higher risk of injury. When we move with the flow, it tends to be a softer landing.

Breathe deep and let your legs guide you. Trust yourself. We all fall at some time or another. It’s okay and it’s expected. We just need to remember to pick ourselves up and move on with grace and humility. Others admire those who take failures in stride. Just tuck and roll…

Tell someone when you’re out alone.
Having someone at home supporting you and knowing what to do if you get into trouble is important. They’ll know when to call in the troops if you need it; and will support you in your goals.

Trying to do everything by yourself can be tiresome and draining. Even just knowing someone’s home, cheering you on from the sidelines, can help keep your perspective and energy.

honor the accomplishment

Take a moment to stop and look where you’ve come from.
Success can creep up on us. One day we step out of the house for our first 3-mile run, coming home tired and sore. And the next time we look, we’ve covered 31 miles of tough, vertical terrain in one day. Or we stand on the summit of a mountain, looking over the vastness of the land before us and see a bird in flight far below.

How did we get here? When did this happen? I’m constantly amazed every time I climb a summit to look down at the trail below and know I’d just been there. The first time I actually ran up an incline on a trail I was stunned. How did I get so strong? Wasn’t it just yesterday I was huffing and puffing my way up? Stopping every few feet to catch my breath?

Recognize your progress and honor it. Success comes to us each and every day, in a myriad of forms and experiences. Take a moment to notice.

 

April 8, 2009

how i want to grow old

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, setting goals | Tags: , |
1 Comment 

I want wrinkles. Yep. I know. I’m weird. But it’s true. I don’t mind the idea of getting more wrinkled as I get older.

a little history
I’ve spent a lot of time with older folks. I had really close relationships with both my grandmothers. I worked at a nursing home for three years in my early 20s and I spent another 5 years contracting with assisted living facilities and nursing homes. I truly enjoy being surrounded by the wisdom and humor of folks over 80 (and really, if you’re not yet approaching or over 80… you’re not old). 

Of course there are the smells, needs, lower energy in some of those environments, but I’ve walked away time and again with a deeper respect and appreciation for life’s experiences. I smile more and recognize all the joys and privileges I have on a daily basis. Things I generally take for granted, I have more gratitude for.

our faces tell a story
One of the most noticeable things about old folks are their wrinkles. And I can generally sense when someone has had a happy life, or if they’ve struggled and blamed the world for their woes. It doesn’t matter if they remember them, or if they can tell you in their own words anymore… you can see it etched in the wrinkles of time.

It may sound hokey and a little new-age-y, but I think it’s true and something we can all afford to be reminded of every once in awhile. Our lives and how we live it are reflected in our faces… and the older we get, the more pronounced they become. 

I recently noticed a few wrinkles appearing between my brows… from squinting in the sun; from expressing dislike; confusion; from crying (often my “default” emotion when stressed); perhaps it’s from simple genetics. I don’t know for sure… probably a combination of all of the above. I don’t want these wrinkles, but I can accept them. 

I want the “kind” wrinkles. The “happy” wrinkles. You know the ones I’m talking about… the ones where it looks like the person is perpetually smiling and finding the joy in each moment. The ones that make you smile when you see them. The ones that crinkle around the eyes and seem to light a sparkle behind them.

I want wrinkles that show satisfaction and pride in the choices I’ve made. I want wrinkles that show compassion and joy for each day. I want wrinkles that reflect the love I’ve received and the love I’ve bestowed on others. I want wrinkles that tell the story of a life lived with grace.

creating wrinkles
So how do I plan to create these wonderful and beautiful wrinkles? I plan to smile a little more often. Laugh more, even when I might not want to. Be conscious of frowning and try not to do it so often. Recognize and remember that life is short… all too often it seems “too” short. Too short to feel frustrated, sad, discouraged or disappointed more times than we’re happy, joyful, enthusiastic and energized. Sure, genetics play a role… but since my genetics seem a little pre-disposed to furrowed brows, I can offer them a little bit of help.

Luckily, my wrinkle-creation goal matches a few other life goals I’m striving to pay attention to: living more in the moment; having and showing compassion and love for myself and others; finding joy in each day; forgiving myself and letting the little things go; laughing and being silly. 

So I surrender to the wrinkles of time and hope that when I’m 95, my face will reflect a life well-lived with joy and with grace.

 

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