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.

 

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.

 

May 11, 2009

a running evolution: from zero to 50 miles

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, setting goals, trail running | Tags: , , , |
[8] Comments 

Before March 2000, I’d never run a mile in my life. I was the girl in middle school and high school that hung out in the back of P.E. class and chatted my way around the track.

one mile
I began running somewhat unintentionally. In an attempt to “warm up” for five minutes before a swim, I got on the treadmill for five minutes. After five minutes, I was curious to see if I could keep going and hit the 1/2 mile mark. Then I decided to go for a mile. Twelve minutes later, I experienced my first-ever consistent mile run.

It must be stated that I was never considered an athletic person (or considered myself athletic). I enjoyed snowboarding and hiking, but never went beyond the mild blue runs and hiked relatively conservatively, preferring to capture images of the wildflowers over gaining a summit. Stopping to rest every five minutes wasn’t uncommon. Growing up, I was interested in dance, singing and playing the violin. I liked the outdoors, but it wasn’t easily accessible in suburban Maryland, so my experiences were somewhat limited.

training begins and a habit forms
After running that first mile, something clicked. I’m not sure exactly what it was… a new challenge presented? a chemical reaction in the body? A sense of new-found pride and excitement at what I might be able to do? I don’t know the exact answer but I do know that things began to change.

I picked out two races with a good friend and began training. My first was a 5K run, the second was a sprint-distance triathlon. At the end of that summer, I found I really enjoyed triathlon. I loved the variety each discipline offered. And I was a somewhat better swimmer and cyclist than runner.

Training for these events didn’t come easily for me. I was used to catching onto things pretty quickly. But this was hard—and humbling. I was getting lapped in the pool by women 40 years my senior; I finished a popular triathlon in the bottom 20% of racers; and I continually placed in the 50th percentile of any and all races I entered. I was average. I was definitely humbled, but more importantly, and maybe counter intuitively, I was inspired and encouraged.

I was changing: physically (toner and more muscular), mentally (stronger, more confident) and emotionally (more focused and happier). I wasn’t fast, but I was having fun and feeling good.

a new goal
After a few years, I realized that time goals weren’t that important to me. I didn’t care if I shaved a minute off my 5K time. Or seconds off my transitions. Since running was my weakest of the three triathlon disciplines, I decided to focus some extra time on it. I figured that if I got better at running, I’d enjoy all aspects of triathlon, instead of just 2/3 of it.

I set two goals for myself that year:

  1. to feel that a 5-mile run was ‘short’
  2. to fall in love with running

After training for, and completing my first half and full marathon (Boulder Backroads, 2004; and the Freescale in Austin, TX, 2005), I realized that I’d achieved the first goal. Running five miles wasn’t so foreign anymore. However, the second goal proved more elusive. I liked running a little more, but I wasn’t jumping out of bed to run in 6º weather, either.

something different
I had attempted two trail races in 2004 and felt pretty discouraged. I came in dead last in my age group in the first race, and finished near the very last (overall) on the next one. I stuck to the roads for awhile longer.

After dealing with a foot injury for most of 2005, I came to the realization that I missed running.

What? I missed it? How can you miss something you dread?

I no longer dreaded running, and more importantly, I realized I’d been taking my ability to run for granted. I was itching to get out. I signed up for the 2006 Pike’s Peak Marathon, facing my fears of the trail, and began training on the trails in and around foothills of Denver and Boulder.

Running on trails is different than road—or even flat dirt roads. The single tracks of the foothills are inspiring. I’m constantly paying attention to my surroundings… looking out for deer rather than cars. And making sure I don’t trip on the rocks or roots. Time disappears beneath my feet.

On a treadmill or road, I am constantly looking at my watch. Ten minutes. Thirteen minutes. Sixteen minutes. Even short runs feel interminable.

Yet the first time I usually check the time on a trail is over a half hour into my run. I find myself reluctant to turn around when I need to. I want to continue. There’s something magical about smelling the evergreen, navigating the rocks beneath you and watching your progress as you realize you’ve run up an incline you weren’t able to do just a short while ago.

Over the spring and summer months of 2006 leading up to the August race, I realized I had finally achieved my goal: I’d fallen in love with running. My first Pike’s Peak marathon was painful. I suffered a pulled muscle and was again sidelined from running for awhile. I’d loved the race. Loved finishing and was more determined than ever to keep at it.

distance explored
I’d fallen in love and didn’t want to stop. Triathlons took a backseat (and continue to wait patiently today) while I explored the limits of my body and mind on the trails. I wasn’t fast, but I was fascinated—and still am—by the boundaries I was pushing. How far could I go? How hard could I push? Where was my limit?

I ran Pike’s Peak again in 2007 and felt stronger and more efficient (and injury-free!). I’d fully enjoyed the run and the overall experience. And I wanted more.

I began looking for new races and new challenges. Living in a community that welcomes the extreme in athletics, ultra running can sometimes feel “normal.” Running long distances seems possible here. I was intrigued by the challenge and encouragement I felt surrounding me.

In early 2008 I ran the Mt. Mitchell Challenge with Bracken. It’s a 40-mile run to the summit of Mt. Mitchell in NC (the tallest peak east of the Mississippi, at 6,684 ft). We trained that winter through ice and snow. After spending most of our weekends running 4-6 hours, I decided I wanted a break from racing and embarked on a “year of fun.”

Although I loved running, it was still hard for me to motivate if there wasn’t a race on the horizon. So I ran for the joy of it. It was liberating. And at the end of 2008, I was ready to push a little more.

I’d heard about the Collegiate Peaks Trail Run, but hadn’t found the nerve to sign up until this year. I felt ready. In January 2009, I signed up for the 50 mile run.

50 miles
I ran across the finish line a week ago: May 2, 2009. I’d done it. Ten hours, fifty-five minute, twenty-one seconds. As the miles disappeared beneath my feet, I thought about the girl nine years ago running her first mile on the treadmill. I smiled and put one foot in front of the other—a steady rhythm beneath my feet—moving forward.

what’s next?
I’m not sure what’s next, but I do know one thing: never say never. Another 50? 100 miles? The Badwater? I don’t know where my search for new challenges will take me, but I’m looking forward to the future and stand open to whatever it presents.

 

November 24, 2008

emotional roller coasters

Posted by Amy C under life experiences | Tags: , , |
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I’ve been more emotional than usual lately. I like to believe I am generally able to let things ride off my back pretty easily. I like that about myself. However, these past months of upheaval have taken their toll. I’m anxious, easily irritated and frequently feeling the magnification of these moments.
Usually I try to figure out why I’m feeling a certain way (’cause there must be a reason I’m being an ass or crying, right?). I try to analyze recent events for signs of when the balance tipped toward the negative. I try to fight through the feelings, telling myself to simply ‘buck up’ and deal. I try and convince myself that I’m overreacting to something or I’ve misheard a comment, or misinterpreted an event. I try to look on the ‘bright side’ and find something positive to learn from the feelings.
But at some point, after I am fully frustrated for being frustrated and irritable, after I’ve cried what feels like rivers of tears and written pages of potential explanations in my journal, the time comes when I become numb. The feelings just simply overwhelm my system and I shut down. I can’t sleep. I can’t write. I can’t think clearly. All I want to do is curl up and disappear until it all goes away. I begin to believe I deserve the pain. 
No one deserves the pain.
The truth is, no one deserves the pain, yet we all experience it. We so often avoid it because it’s unpleasant. It hurts. We attempt to label anger or sadness with reasons why we feel them to make them seem ‘okay’ or ‘acceptable’ (or at least I do). 
Feelings and emotions need no excuses. They need no explanations–no caveats or embarrassed reasonings (“I haven’t slept well”; “It’s the hormones”; “I don’t know what got into me”).
Feelings simply are. Emotions are. 
They exist. We cannot separate ourselves from the nasty or unpleasant ones like we can avoid a foul smell. They are part of us and deserve our respect and our acknowledgment. 
We need not apologize for our emotions.
They’ve done nothing wrong. We don’t have to qualify them. Or understand them. We don’t have to minimize them or glorify them. Our sadness is just as vital and important as our joy. Our anger is as integral to our growth as pride and confidence.
We give them power precisely when we try and deny it. Avoidance feeds it. We don’t accept it because it feels bad. It feels weak. It gets in the way of our plans. 
What if?
What would happen if we gave the emptiness our attention? What would happen if we simply gave anger a space to be–no action required? Just provide it a space to be present.
And if we are made up of emotions and expressions and perceptions, don’t we owe it to our anger, our sadness, our fear and loneliness a space within us to exist?
We are so proud of joy and love and exuberance. We share it and talk about our sense of peace and contentment with others. We offer the world our joy and the beauty we see. Yet we hide our anxiety–even from ourselves. We dismiss our restlessness and our loneliness as not worthy.
The more we hide and deny these emotions; the more we push them away and get mad that they hang around–the stronger they become and the more important it becomes to acknowledge them and then let them be.
It’s not wrong.
It is not wrong to feel pain for “no reason.” There doesn’t need to be a reason–just as there needs no explanation when we wake up happy. We can wake up mad as hell and still survive the day. We can feel defeated and empty and alone with a room full of loved ones and it’s not wrong. It’s not ungrateful. 
It’s not anything, but what it is. You feel bad. Period.
Identify it. Accept it. Acknowledge it. And then just keep moving forward. One moment at a time.
 

November 4, 2008

standing in the fire

Posted by Amy C under life experiences | Tags: , , |
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Fire. We are taught at an early age not to get “too close” to the fire. That it’s hot. You’ll get burned. It’ll be painful and will scar you for life. It’s dangerous. Be afraid of it.

So we buy into the fear and avoid the fire. We shrink back when things get too heated. We douse those uncomfortable fires with water and try to put them out. In fact, we can spend years avoiding the fires in our life. 

We don’t want to look too closely at what’s in the fire. Our past wounds. Our shortcomings. Our mistakes and regrets. The hurts we’ve caused others. The accusations we’ve inflicted upon ourselves. The parts of our personalities and character that we’d rather not admit to… that ‘dark side’ that comes out when we’re stressed, or angry, or hurt. The stories and scripts we tell ourselves are true.

There’s a poem an old friend sent me a few years back called, The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. It’s an amazing poem about integrity and being true to yourself and those you love. There is one stanza toward the end that I’m reminded of today:

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
Stand in the center of the fire. Stand alone. Stand with your loved ones. Stand with a stranger. Stand in the fire and feel the heat of the moment. The truth in the present. The strength of your self.

To stand in the fire seems like such a foreign concept to our western minds. But it’s a powerful experience to look ourselves in the mirror, accepting and acknowledging the pain. Admitting to ourselves that our pain, indeed, exists is hard. Why is this so difficult for us?

Are we embarrassed? Do we believe that to admit pain is to admit weakness? That to get too close to the unwanted feelings, they’ll hurt us even more? That we won’t recover? Do we believe the fire will alter our core? That we’ll change into an ‘evil’ person? Who tells us this is the truth? How did we come to believe in, and subscribe to these beliefs?

I believe that taking the action to consciously acknowledge and accept our pain as our own–saying it out loud, if only to ourselves, that our wounds exist–we become stronger and more integrated within ourselves. In accepting our whole selves, we diffuse the fears and this notion that we cannot have imperfections in our character to be whole. To the contrary, we actually come closer to the ever-elusive balance that we all seek.

Because here’s the thing (and this is not a new concept, but worth repeating): To ignore pain; to ignore the less-than-appealing parts of ourselves that we wish we could hide, is to do ourselves a true disservice. For to ignore that part of us, to push it aside, is to give it strength. And we give up a chance at integrating all of the facets of our selves and risk being one-dimensional. To truly integrate and create balance in our lives, is to accept and even (dare I suggest it) appreciate the fires that burn within us. 

So I invite you all to go ahead and stand in the fire. Walk into it with your head held high and your eyes open and relish the heat. Embrace your fears and have compassion for them. Provide a safe place where they can exist as part of you. Nurture them with your humanity and feel the release.

photo credit: Hello_Serjiy
 

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