Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

Ahhhh. It's so nice to be over feeling awful. I so seldom get sick that when I do I feel really horrible. I usually don't get down for too long, though, which is always nice. I've bounced back pretty good from being sick last week. I did take more time off from running than I wanted to, but I figured I'd be better off by taking a few more days than pushing it and not getting better quicker. I got back at it this morning, only two miles, but that's okay. I'll work my way back to where I was. My favorite season began a couple of days ago. I love fall. The trees changing, the temps falling, the air taking on a musky smell urge me to just sit back and relax. I find I do seem to slow down, pay more attention to what's going on around me. The pumpkins are ready to be set on the front porch. The yellow mums are bright in the gray light of the rainy days. Doesn't get much better than this. I'm getting things ready for my second charity dinner. My first dinne...

A nasty cold took hold of me on Sunday and hasn't let go since. I've been going to work until today, when I was on my way but could barely keep my eyes open to drive. I figured it was time to cave and just stay home. The world certainly isn't going to stop because I can't make one day of classes. And I certainly wasn't doing myself any favors by trying to go on like I'm 100%. I tell my students to stay home if they are coughing and sneezing, so I took my own advice and confined myself to bed for the day. I slept until almost 2. When I woke up and saw what time it was, I was stunned. I knew I was feeling completely worn down, and I knew I hadn't been sleeping much at all for the last three nights, but I didn't expect to go back to bed this morning and sleep for six hours straight. It's amazing to me how our bodies try to tell us, but we don't listen most of the time. I'm feeling quite a bit better now, thanks to uninterrupted sleep. Maybe I...

I finally did it. I ran three whole miles without walking at all. And I've done this more than once now. I even ran five miles the other day. I'm finding that once I get the first half mile in I sort of fall into a zone. It may be a slow zone, but I get there and keep going for the three miles. I know I can now complete a 5k, and this makes me want to go to work on bettering my time. My friends laugh at my time--12 minute miles--but it's a start. By November, when the 5k is, hopefully I can bring it down to around 30 minutes. I know my daughter will push me since she's faster, so maybe I could even get lower than 30. That would be great. Being able to get my mind into the mix has been a long time coming. I'm getting there, though, and for that I'm happy. Updated mileage ticker:

Only three yards separate him from the goal line where if he can get the ball across, his team will gain two points, and be in a fine position to hand the other team their second loss of the yet still young season. He's called The Beast by his teammates, being taller, heavier, a mostly-grown bull amongst calves. His usual position is on the line, right guard, steaming foward when he hears the call, cutting in halves two defenders double teaming. But on this play, this very special play known as Jumbolicious, he's off the line, now a fullback who receives the ball, hopefully carrying it to the endzone, battling enemies determined to crack his armour, tear him down, leave him prone. His comrades crouch low, ready to spring to action, pushing, shoving, opening a hole for The Beast to crash through; his cleats find traction on the close-cut grass, and he rolls toward the white line, seeking satisfaction. Fingers clutch at his jersey, pulling him left, pulling him right, but head do...

That's what I've been feeling for some time now about writing. The problem? I'm not writing. Why? Everytime I sit down to try and churn something out, nothing actually comes out. How can it be that the kind of want I'm feeling exists but nothing comes of it? So, instead, I've been reading lots of different works: Emerson, Whitman, Tolle and others. I feel like there is so much out there to learn about and not near enough time to learn it all. Part of me thinks perhaps I'm not meant to be a writer. After all, I am forty-five years old now, and if it were meant to be, wouldn't I have already written something worthwhile? Another part of me says age shouldn't be a factor; lots of successful writers didn't make it until after mid-life. It comes down to persistance. Which is it? I'm not ready to give up, which I think is a good sign. I'm going to keep chipping away at it until I either write something that is deemed worthy or another five years go...