"Running On Faith"

I don't know if I have any faith left in me.

This is a hard admission for a girl who was raised to believe in and respect something higher and greater. I spent my hours in a church pew, staring at a vaulted ceiling while the red velor cushions itched at the backs of my legs. I remember the lessons, well, some of them anyway. Be kind and loving. Be tolerant and respectful. Honor your parents. Don't hurt people. Don't judge. I've always understood that faith is a good thing.

But I have spent my first thirty years doing a lot of hard running and wistful thinking. Broken hearts and broken bones; my scars remind me of the narrow misses. I seem to be hard-wired for movement and most of the folks I know with any amount of faith seem better at sitting still. I don't know if I ever had it or if I just lost what little pieces I had along my way.

Am I running from faith or towards it? I simply do not know, but what I am certain about is that all of it will catch up with me sooner or later. I wonder when this body is going to give out. I wonder how long I can keep running while checking over my shoulder at every turn. Faith doesn't dwell in those kind of anxious moments, not for me anyway.

Sometimes, as I lay in bed at night, I pray. In the absolute darkness, I clasp my hands in front of my chest and whisper. I don't know who exactly is listening, but I hope that I'm heard. Maybe that is the first step of faith.

Me, Shiloh, and Neko Case

A few evenings ago, I was driving down a back road in Wicomico County, headed home from my mother's house. It was approaching dusk. Shiloh, my basset hound/golden retriever, was riding shotgun; Neko Case was singing on the radio.

The corn was nearly thigh-high. I am always amazed at how fast it grows. In a few days, it'll be hip-high. The sun was setting on the edge of the field, slipping down behind a row of shadowed trees. I imagined crickets chirping. It was so peaceful... I wanted to pull over and just stay for a moment.

Shiloh rested his head on the open window sill, letting the air rush over his face, closing his eyes on ocassion. Sniffing constantly. I envy his serenity.

Neko Case was singing, "I'm a dying breed who believes... haunted by American dreams." Being haunted is a curse and a blessing. Or at least, this is what I've decided. Ghosts will stop you cold but then force you to run.

I leaned back in my seat. Felt the wind rush through the open windows. Listened. Thought. Over the past few weeks, my mind has been unsettled. I've been pulled tighter than a drum and the stress has been evident all over me. At the end of the day, I'm just looking for one simple thing: a little bit of peace. I try to put some ink on paper, hoping that my peace is in the lines and in the spaces between the letters. It helps, I won't lie, but once in a while, there's just not enough ink.

Shiloh turned away from the window and I rubbed his head. As I pulled to a stop at an intersection with another back country road, I heard the crickets and a frog. And there, in that little moment, I smiled.

Still

I'm sitting on my back door step, writing this under a sky that threatens to storm. Occasional flashes and distant growls. The wind rushing through the leaves sounds like rain or like faded applause. My old yellow dog is uneasy and whining nervously. Across the open field behind my house, in the distance, I can hear the fire station horn blaring, cycling up and down the tones. My thoughts are swirling, but mostly, I keep coming back to one: try to be still.

An old friend once told me that I am always moving, pacing, doing, running. "You're never still, you know." She smiled at me when she said it so I couldn't take offense. But this struck me.

I asked her what she meant. She said that as long as she has known me (more than 25 years), she has never seen me stop. "You're always into something, moving towards a goal or something. You just go, go, go. And that's alright for the most part, but you know, at some point, you gotta relax. You gotta learn to breathe."

Stop. Listen. Breathe.

But the truth is... I don't know how to stop moving. I've heard that sharks must move or die - they need that continual motion in order to keep water flowing over their gills, in order to breathe. Maybe I am built like that. Maybe this never-stopping is how I keep breathing.

"Don't you ever get tired?" she asked.

I thought about it. Sleep is a relative stranger to me. When I was young, I used to try to keep awake as long as I could because I was plagued with night terrors and nightmares. That part never really changed. These days, I sleep, but just enough. I grow tired just like anyone else, but the fatigue gets shoved aside because I can't stand its slowing effect.

The sky is rumbling again, but the wind has stopped. An insect is chirping in the field. I've been sitting here for more than twenty minutes. My mind is a mangle of thoughts that I can't get straight. And that old feeling is rising up inside me again...

I'm leaving.

Letters from Curacao

Night has fallen in the Caribbean. I am exhausted but entirely happy. The warm breezes remind me of just how far away from home I am. This morning, we left Baltimore under a deep blanket of snow and an uncomfortable cold. Tonight, I sit mere feet away from a softly lolling Caribbean Sea.

The tree frogs have started an evening chorus, small pleasulant chirps not quite in unison.  Palm trees sway, creating a rustling backdrop for the frogs.  All I can do is listen. 

It has been a long day of traveling. My eyes are growing heavy. I am already dreaming of blue water.

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Location : 1903-1969 Autumn Grove Ct, Salisbury, MD 21804,

Running in the Rain

I feel certain that the neighbors think I've lost my mind. Secretly, I fear they may be right.

I awoke this morning to the sound of the rain, lightly tapping on the roof and window, sliding down and dripping into pools below my bedroom window. The morning carried that bluish-haze of not-yet-morning; I just listened.

Shiloh, our bassett hound/golden retriever, was whining. He is, as we say, "weather sensitive" and this morning meant two different things for us. For him, it was a terrible punishment; for me, it was a sweet punishment. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and Shiloh looked at me with those sad, big brown eyes. "It's ok, boy, it's just the rain." I rubbed his head and he whined again. He is not easily pacified.

I grabbed my running gear, iPod, and headphones. This was the first test for my waterproof jacket. I was counting on it to save my beloved iPod. On second thought, I grabbed a set of dry clothes... yes, I was certain I'd need them. Shiloh followed me to the door, tail tucked between his legs. "Come on, Shi. It's ok. Really. Just rain." I smiled at him, but he was inconsolable.

The drive to the old neighborhood took a few minutes. The rain was coming down pretty steady; the temperature gauge said it was 45 degrees outside. Cold. Wet. Run. It started to sound like a bad plan, but I tend to follow the worst of my ideas. I turned up the radio to drown out the wipers and it was an old country and western song. It was awful and it made me smile. Soon, I was pulling into my favorite running haunt: the old neighborhood.

This is the part where I began to question my sanity.

I stepped onto the road. The rain was coming down, not in sheets but not lightly either. Just sweet and steady. Music filled my ears; water was seeping through my running tights. Stretch. Stretch. Deep breath and the cold filled my lungs. Was I drowning? I exhaled and an evil smirk stretched across my face.

Run.

The first thing I lost was my hood. It flipped back and exposed my dry head. I tried to pull it on again but it just kept slipping off. Forget it. Without any cover for my poor head, I knew I'd have to cut this one short. Damn it. Well, I decided, if it will be short, then it will be fast.

I lowered my head and pushed my legs faster. Rain drops were collecting in my hair, slipping down my neck, and sliding down my back. The chill on my spine was unnerving and satisfying. I kept moving, stretching my stride and splashing in puddles. I could feel the water beginning to bleed into my shoes. Rain trickled into my eyes. I ran faster.

The second thing I lost was my mind. As I rounded the corner in the back of the neighborhood, I realized that this was absolutely crazy. What am I doing? Wait, I know what... but why? Why do I do things like this? Then I remembered and that evil smile stretched back across my face.

"Come on, girl. You can finish this." My lungs were burning and I was soaking wet, rain dripping from my hair and my chin. And I was freezing. The folks who lived next door to my mother drove past me in a pick-up truck. I couldn't even lift my eyes to see them. I am insane. And they probably think so too.

God help me.

I finished my run. My body was cold and numb - fingers, toes, thighs, forehead. But I felt alive. I walked a few paces, spitting and stretching. It was a bad idea, running in the rain. I knew it before I did it, but I couldn't help myself. This is how I'm built: crazy ideas with forceful and relentless follow-through. Once I was full of self-destruction; now I temper myself with days like this.

A raindrop fell from my hair onto my cheek and slid down to my chin. That was enough.

Hello New Year

The new year came in and I barely noticed. We were laughing, drinking, dancing... the room was spinning so fast. The music was loud and I felt each note in my bones. Surrounded by friends, cameras flashing, catching us in wild poses and making strange faces, smiling with ear to ear grins, we could not stop laughing. Someone dropped a wine glass. We kept dancing. My focus was slow and uncertain. I heard my name and answered with a glass raised in the air. Everything was out of control and I was at ease.

At the countdown, I was in my Thomas's arms, smiling up into his sweet face. Nothing else mattered. I kissed my husband and hugged my friends. More loud music. Another round of drinks. Camera flashes. Laughter. A deliciously spinning room. I know how to navigate my way through this sort of madness.

Flashes of images and disjointed phrases comprise the remainder of my memory for the night. The sun came up before I went down for the count.

In the haze of the next morning, I only had one resolution. Find my camera.