AfricanKelli

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A new friend, who has been staying with me for a few months, is a professional runner. Yes, I realize I’m setting myself up for a very odd pattern of having professional athletes live with me. But, then again, it is nice to have company and someone else to take Nelson for walks.

Fine. Sarah takes him for distance runs. I take him for easy walks.

Having someone in my home who monitors every single bite that goes in her mouth as part of her job has been, well…. let’s say interesting. It’s made me take a much closer look at my fridge, plate, and scale.

I once dreamed of swimming collegiately after spending the majority of my childhood in a Speedo, but it didn’t pan out. Come to find out I am not fast. I’m not a quick swimmer, runner, cyclist, tooth brusher, etc. I can, however, go the distance. The mile was always my event swimming. The half marathon became my event as an adult runner. I loved the one half Ironman I completed. These events take as much mental discipline as they do strength; I love the dual challenge.

Thankfully, I’ve got exercise-loving genes. My parents were both incredibly active when I was growing up and continue to exercise today. My brother was on the  path to being a world class swimmer once upon a time, and today can climb mountains like a monkey. Our family vacations were planned around beach time, where we’d swim and run and goof off with the paddle ball set until we’d barely be able to lift fish tacos to our tired mouths.

Living with a professional female runner has stirred up emotion I didn’t anticipate, nor considered once when hosting Matty for three years. Come to find out, I deeply wish I’d made strides athletically then, and could run more than 3 miles today without my body failing today. This buried emotion emerged recently at the end of yoga classes, bubbling up unexpectedly. It’s strange to recognize a disappointment that lay dormant for 15 years, waiting for just the inopportune time to be mined into daylight.

What can you do? I wish I’d been fast. I’m not. Boo-freaking-hoo. That doesn’t mean I can’t be a great athlete (yogi, hiker, cyclist, bowler, driving range golf ball destroyer) today.

Cooking with Sarah has been an education in dietary diversity and odd supplements. I now regularly eat brewer’s yeast. There is fish oil in my fridge. There are hemp hearts in a canister on the counter. I’m eating a ridiculous, Costco-amount of spinach each week and have started carrying a water bottle wherever I go. Sometimes an old dog can learn new tricks.

Frankly, it is more fun to be challenged to those things I can change — headstands in yoga, a healthy diet, cycling up Lookout Mountain — than spending any more time pouting about the history I cannot. I thank a regular yoga practice for both digging up what I didn’t want to address, and for learning to let it go.

Namaste, y’all.

~K

Min sent an email a couple of weeks ago in planning her trip to Denver with Rebecca: “Girls, let’s white water raft!” My response was, “Or! We could go to hot springs and get massages and hang out at the spa.” We volleyed back and forth between our ideas.

Her: White water raft!

Me: Pedicures!

Her: White water raft!

Me: Mimosas and hot stone massage!

Min is notoriously nervous about travel, but loves a great rush of completely non-controlled adrenaline — like rafting and climbing trees full of bee hives.

I, on the other hand, have no problem taking a prop plane into a tiny African town, but a weekend activity that requires a helmet and public display of lycra?

No thank you.

(More about that lycra later. )

Needless to say, Mini won and by the end of the day, we all agreed white water rafting Clear Creek was one of the most fun things we’d ever done. We screamed, giggled, yelled and talked over chattering teeth as we dipped and bobbed down the 6 mile trek. Our guide, Chelsea, was the perfect fit for our high strung, type A raft. Like the Aussie surfing turtles in Finding Nemo, she was so laid back and sweet — it was hard to think what we were doing was in the least bit dangerous, dude. With a head full of dreads, arms weighed down with dozens of bracelets and tanned arms and legs that showed she rarely left the river, she called commands as we paddled like mad.

It. Was. Awesome.

So fun, in fact, I’m now trying to talk my dad into a long float trip down the Grand Canyon. I love rafting for the same reasons I love fly fishing — it brings you to the most beautiful places you’d likely otherwise not see from that vantage point. The river was breathtaking. And I’m hooked.

So, in rare form I’ll admit Mini was right. This was such a good idea. Perhaps even better than a spa day.

~K

* Our raft trip included 6 boats full of people, including a boy scout troop. I was the only one who didn’t plan on wearing more than a Speedo to go down the river. The yoga pants I brought wouldn’t work and I just didn’t think to bring shorts. So, there I stood on the side of the highway with 35 clothed folks wearing only my lap swim bathing suit and a pair of Chacos. It’s not like I’ve got some sort of ridiculously fit bravado at the moment where I didn’t care that my butt was the only one flapping in the breeze. Oh, I cared. But when life turns out to resemble a cliche fashion nightmare, what can you do? Throw back your shoulders, slap on a fake smile and pretend you MEANT to be the only one in a Speedo.

Yep. Meant to.

Gulp.

The fact Mini and Bec were willing to claim me during this public display of humility? Well. They are very good friends.

When you take census of the things you own and the things you are willing to move 1000 miles, you are reminded of who you truly are. Our things, especially those of which we are unwilling to part, define our values. We’ve voted with our wallets. These dishes, this piece of art, this bike. They each have a story.

Part of this move is to pull myself from the vain and excessively materialistic culture I find myself so attracted to by working in north Scottsdale. BMWs, fancy designer bags that cost twice my mortgage, prescriptions to grow eyelashes longer and plump lips. Being a part of this life is my default. It’s where I find myself without any work. In fact, it feels great to walk into a trendy restaurant wearing designer jeans and having a great pocketbook tucked under my arm and diamonds in my ears.

Like these things tell everyone in the room I’m successful. I’ve made it. And really, how silly is that? My heart could be as tiny and black as the Grinch’s, but with the right clothes, I’d feel noticed and admired.

This isn’t who I want to be. I need a shedding of skin  — to remind myself of the values that made me the weirdo through primary school (save the trees! recycle!) and in college (why blow dry your hair when you can spend that time reading/hiking/looking at the clouds?). Of course, with a change in jobs and income I’ll no longer be shedding that skin with a fancy spa treatment, so much as a homemade sea salt scrub.

Who do you want to be? Exactly who you are? If so, my hat is off to you. Each day I awake and think of how I could have handled the day before a bit better. What I could have said differently, how I could have acted a bit more gracious. I often hear from friends, “I don’t know who I want to be when I grow up.” Never mind most are in their 30s. We aren’t a lost generation so much as one that wants to balance luxury with meaning.

I want to be a woman who is confident without a mirror. One who regularly volunteers. One who always makes room for others in her home and at her table. One who gives generously and doesn’t care about her car because she’s on her bike. One who can get along with her mother no matter what, because for heaven’s sakes — I’ve only got one and she is dang special. I want to eat less meat, grow more of my own food and have a home that reflects a family trying to tread as lightly on this sweet earth as possible. I want to be confident in sharing my faith with others when they ask. I want people to know I’m a Christian by my actions — and I want that to mean something good and honorable in my community.

I want to spend less time navel gazing (ironic, on a blog) and more time photographing life.

(And I kinda want to change the world, so I’m going to start with mine.)

Too much? I dare say not.

Letting my homemade, optimistic, hippie freak flag fly,

K

This weekend I ran the inaugural Mountain to Fountain 15k with a team of friends, aptly named “Natalie Merchant and the 15k Maniacs.”  The race started in the McDowell Mountain State Park and finished at the giant fountain in Fountain Hills. While it was a “net” downhill run, there are several considerable hills and it was one heck of a run.

I had more fun with this race than I’d have had running in a long time. It renewed my love for the sport; I can’t wait to get through a cortisone shot this week in my heel so I can get back to distance running. (Add that to the list of sentences I never thought I’d say.) Everything about this race reminded me why I like distance running: the variety of participants, the glorious scenery, the repetitive one foot after another, the battle of your mind vs. the pain, the powerful surge for the last half mile showing you can run farther and faster than you ever thought you could. There is nothing as sweet as being stronger — both mentally and physically — than you thought.

I finished smiling knowing I couldn’t have run it one bit faster or smarter than I did. That in itself was a complete victory.

And who doesn’t need the occasional win?

Thanks to my compadres, the Maniacs: Juliann, Adam, Dave and Octavio. And the mystery member of our team who signed herself up obviously because of the rad name. Whomever you are, we salute you — random Maniac. Also, many thanks to Kilimadog for photographing and driving.

~K

P.S. Lookie who surprised me at the finish — Finny! Such a good supportive friend of crazy athletic endeavors she is.

Juliann and I ran the Women’s Half Marathon together this morning. The course was hilly by Arizona standards, but also quite lovely. We started in south Scottsdale, wound around the Papago Mountains, over the Mill Avenue Bridge and around Tempe Town Lake to finish at the park. While my time was far from a personal best, it was a great dive back into the pool of running.

I’m now looking for a couple more halves this winter. Even though today was slow, it felt great. In so many ways, it filled my sails. I can’t wait to get back out there and race again!

~K