Just to See You Smile

“You smile a lot.”

For some reason, these words have been ringing in my head for over a week. When I heard them, I wasn’t entirely sure what they meant.  That I was happy? That I smile at inappropriate times? That I use it as a mechanism? That I smile unknowingly? That I appear centered? I can’t shake the words, and the meaning behind them.

“This is good, right?” I keep thinking about it.  I guess I do smile a lot.

I’ve always known I use it as armor – I smile when someone asks a question I have no intention of answering, I smile when someone asks how I’m feeling and I don’t want to talk about it, and I smile when I’m putting on appearances.  I smile as indication that I’m following another person’s train of thought; I smile because I relate. I also think I’m a generally happy person, and I love to laugh.  I smile because I feel like it, and because something makes me happy.  I laugh a lot, and use sarcasm with a smirk on a regular basis, too. 

Yesterday, however, I discovered that I smile for reasons I hadn’t thought about before.  I smile when I’m uncomfortable… like, really uncomfortable.  Should you ask me a question about something deeply personal, there’s a very good chance that I’ll slap on a grin, and look away.  I think it’s embarrassment?  I’m not entirely sure.  But, I definitely do it.  It’s a defense mechanism, one I had never put any thought into.  Maybe frowning makes me feel exposed? Weak? I really don’t know.

I guess, for me, smiling is a way of connecting with people, without having to get personal.  I keep things pretty surface level with most people, I’m not big on sharing.  I smile to ward of the questions, to laugh through the “I’m so not going to share that with you”, to keep people engaged and yet at a distance.  My smiles aren’t disingenuous, they’re just… a cover.  I’m sure there is some deeply profound reason for it all. There’s certainly some sort of history which caused it, some grand design behind it on a subconscious level. I don’t know that I care to dig that deeply.  To me, it feels like one of those ticks which may not be entirely typical, but it’s not a bad thing to have someone notice.

Yeah, I guess I do. I smile a lot. I think I’m comfortable with that.

Not for the faint of heart... although I've seen more than one person faint.

“Okay, so you're healthy - I need suggestions.  The boyfriend wants 'healthy food' for dinner and I have no idea what he means.  Is stir fry healthy?”

“I really want to get healthy. Think you can create me a workout routine I can do at home?”

“I’ve got this trip to Figi planned in a couple of weeks.  How can I lose weight before then, you know, without starving myself?”

“Your snack drawer is terrible.  There’s nothing in there but protein, and, like, healthy food.”

“You’re the only person I know who bitches about working out, and yet still gets excited about it.”

These conversations happen with me all the time.  How did I become “that girl”? I’m the person in the office who people come to with their questions about diet and exercise. The guy down the row shares his latest finds in smoothies, and protein shakes.  The girl up on 8 asks me if I’ve tried the latest workout craze.  One of my plethora of bosses talks to me about his current regimen and wonders if I’ve tried any of it, or if there’s anything I would change.  And, my trainer informs me that she puts me through things she’s never put another female client through. I’m the “healthy chick.”

Seriously???

How in the Hell did this happen?  I’ve never been particularly athletic.  I mean, I played soccer in high school, but only because a friend wanted to try out for select, and didn’t want to go alone.  Crazy thing is, I actually made the team. For select soccer. As a freshman. Having not played anything but school ball when I was in the 6^th grade.  Yeah… looking back, I realize I was apparently athletic then, too.  I just didn’t realize it.

Fast forward to my early twenties, and I’d become the girl in the new marriage.  We were broke, and eating CRAP all the time. I gained weight.  Things got rough, and I gained more. I had two babies, and on piled the pounds.  The more I gained, the worse I felt about how I looked, and the more I told myself I wasn’t athletic, and just had to do the diet thing in order to lose it.

Me, pre-running (Ugh.)

In the spring of 2008, my family moved to Jacksonville, FL.  The few women I spent time with were either thin and lovely, or extremely athletic, or both.  Living in Florida also lands you smack dab in the middle of swimsuit world. Year round.  I hated the way I looked, and hated how I felt standing next to women who didn’t look frumpy, overweight, and so… stay-at-home-mom. I hated who I was, and I was ashamed of how I looked.  I joined a co-ed soccer team, and spent one miserably hot summer running in the humidity. Then, I just kept running.  I ran a couple of miles each night, after the kids were asleep.  From the second I laced up my sneakers, I was cranky about it.  I was cranky for the first half mile.  Then, I’d get into a rhythm, and just go.  The pounds started to melt away, and the high of the run always left me happy.

Me, last day in Florida (Jeebus, look at those cheeks!)

After a couple of years, and another cross country move, I reached a plateau.  Much thinner and happier, but nowhere near ideal, I stopped focusing on it, and buried myself in work.  The running happened in spurts, without any consistency.  I wrapped up some schooling, and needed a PE credit to finish. So, I took a weight lifting class.  Being the perfectionist I so often am, I couldn’t just pass the class. I needed to ace it. So, I went in, 3 times a week, and gave this hour workout my absolute everything. The days I lifted ended up being the days I felt best.

Then, one random day, I decided to seek out CrossFit.  A number of people I know, and respect, are hardcore addicts, and had attempted to recruit me on a number of occasions.  It’s crazy expensive, but, as I often do, I justified it to myself with with the explanation that a personal trainer is far more expensive. So, I gave it a shot.  That first day, my life changed forever.

CrossFit is my cult.  Although I’ve not been a practicing member for nearly 2 years, I’m an advocate of the highest degree.  The workout is a killer, there’s no getting around it.  It’s painful, and exhausting, and not for the faint of heart.  Seeing triangle shaped, burly men doubled over outside, heaving away, followed by the sweat-angels flopped on the mats, I knew I was in for a rude awakening. Every time I walked into the gym and gazed up at the board for the Workout of the Day (WOD), I cringed.  They’re hard. Like, stupid hard.  Every single one pushes you so far past anything you ever dreamed you could accomplish.  You bitch and moan, you throw up, you collapse in a pile of sweaty limbs, and you hurt for days on end after it.

So, why do it? 

That’s the resounding question. I’m not an exercise fiend. It’s not my drug. Yes, I love the results.  Yes, I love the endorphin rush. Yes, I love being part of such an amazing, uplifting pseudo family.  But, that’s not why *I* do it.

For me, CrossFit was an awakening.  I’ve spent so many years thinking I’m not good enough, I’m not worthy enough, and I can’t accomplish things.  I’ve settled for what’s attainable, and done everything I can to be a rockstar at those things, because my dreams simply weren’t something *I* was capable of. So, looking up at the ridiculous WOD, day after day, and thinking “No. Fucking. Way. I absolutely, positively, and undeniably cannot accomplish that” was daunting, to say the least. Then, against everything I knew to be true, and held dear to my true self, I knocked down those WODs, one after another.  The high, the amazing feeling, was no longer the rush of adrenaline; my high is accomplishment. I am capable. I am strong. I am athletic. I am so much more than I have ever given myself credit for.

As I sit here typing, I’m wearing my favorite hoodie.  It’s grey, it’s got a bleach stain on the sleeve, and it’s several years old. I live in the damn thing.  Across the back reads a quote I strive to live my life by – “Today I will do what others won’t, so tomorrow I can accomplish what others can’t.”

So, after all that work, my workouts became my rush. When I start to slack, I remember how much I am fully able to do, if I put my mind to it.  I love the sore muscles because they mean I pushed through when I didn’t want to. I love the questions because, suddenly, people recognize that I am this person. I am healthy, and strong, and driven, and committed.  I have curves which were made for muscles, and I’m not ashamed of them.  I eat right. I exercise. I work hard. And I love the results, both inside and out.

Me, present day - after a run

CrossFit is my cult. I am an addict. And I am NOT ashamed of it.

I couldn’t pick just one, so, here you go.

http://www.pinterest.com/1beastette1/crossfit-quotes/

"The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders at our quaint spirits.” -William Shakespeare

 Just over a year ago, I discovered that I had a connection with owls.  These nocturnal creatures, endangered in my neck of the woods, hoot at me on a nearly daily basis, both in daylight and at night.  They follow me around and sing their little greetings as I wander to my car after a long commute on the train, and call to me from my backyard at night.  I found myself strangely comforted by this sound. The calls became such a welcome part of my days, and often brushed away frustrations I'd carried all the way back to suburbia. Owls embraced me, and I, them.  These mysterious creatures became part of my dreams, and dug their talons into my heart.

So, being the researcher I am, I did what came naturally to me.  I started trying to figure out what it meant.  A few items of note:

One of the earliest human drawings dating back to the early Paleolithic period was of a family of Snowy Owls painted on a cave wall in France.

From ancient Athens, the silver four-drachma coin bore the image of the owl on the obverse side as a symbol of the city's patron, Athene Pronoia, the Greek goddess of wisdom who, in an earlier incarnation, was goddess of darkness. The owl -- whose modern scientific name Athene carries this heritage -- came to represent wisdom from its association with the dark. The owl was also the guardian of the Acropolis.

The people of Afghanistan have long believed the Owl gave Man flint and iron to make fire, and in exchange, Man gave the Owl his feathers. In Babylon, Owl amulets protected women during childbirth. In Celtic lore, the Owl was a sign of the underworld. Greenland folktales explain that the Inuit see the Owl as a source of guidance and help.  There are a number of Native American stories about owls, most of which related to their association with prophecy and divination.  Even today in India, the Barn owl is the "vahana" (transport/vehicle/mount) of the Hindu goddess of wisdom, Lakshmi. As such, the owl is held as a symbol of wisdom and learning.

A snippet I found particularly comforting -  If owls begin to follow you everywhere it could be that it has come into your life as a protective totem animal. In such a case it is there to guide you either for a while or for the rest of this life time.

The sum of all of this for me? A couple of things - 

1) Owls are mysterious creatures with ways which aren't always understood, and thus regularly mistaken for bad or evil.

2) Owls often represent wisdom and protection.  

3) Even children's novels (read: "Owl" in Winnie the Pooh), owls are associated with knowing the things which can't be known - an instinct for seeing things often unseen.

It may just be a decision on my part, but I've adopted the owl as my "pet" animal.  I'm drawn to them, and feel connected to them.  I learned a few years ago to trust my instincts.  I am not always right, but my gut has led me astray VERY few times.  People in my life often seek me out in times of need, to be the voice of reason, and to protect them in stormy weather.  I crave knowledge, and thrive on learning. And, those who don't understand the choices I make, or the affects I have (and lack there of), often snap to judgement about me, condemning me.

I've been toying with the idea of an owl tattoo for over a year.  Today I'm leaning toward it, but that could easily change tomorrow.  Until I'm firmly committed to it, my design sits tacked up on my wall above my desk, reminding me of who I am.

Sideways

The weathered cabin sat vacant on the edge of the meadow. Behind it, evergreen trees sprung up, first here and there, eventually piling up into a dense forest fifty yards in the distance.  A small, dry creek bed crackled under her feet as she approached the sagging porch of the abandoned shack.  All indications of life had long disappeared from this place and she understood that the family would not be returning.  She heard the children's laughter echo off the cavern walls, high above her, and float into the vast emptiness overhead.  She heard his axe, slamming into the chopping block, and caught sight of her former self sprawled in the wild grasses and flowers, nose buried in a book.

Step by step, she cautiously climbed the stairs of the porch she once knew so well.  The boards creaked and groaned beneath the soles of her soft leather shoes, but none gave way.  The porch enveloped the home, wrapping all the way around, white paint long ago peeled away and battered by the seasons. She stood in the corner where the two chairs had lived, not quite facing one another. Her father's steady breathing still whispered in her ears. Setting her shoulder bag where his old boots had piled up each evening, she dropped to her knees and ran her hand along the boards in the space she felt his presence, still lingering. It was here, in this spot, where the unease washed over her and she knew, deep in her bones, he was not yet gone. As his presence overwhelmed her, Annie gave in to her emotions, letting the waves of sorrow wash over her, sweeping her effortlessly out to sea.

Twenty seven years had passed since they left this place and somehow she found herself standing on the edge of this former safety net, wondering how it all went so sideways. Deep pangs of regret cut through her. Yet, she climbed to her feet and debated moving onward. The hearth beckoned her and filled her with an unnerving sense of dread.  Approaching he door, Annie's eyes darted back and forth across the porch and into the darkened doorway.  The ghosts which lingered there knew the stories, the laughter and the tears, the joy and the sorrow. They knew all the secrets. They murmured to one another of the events which unfolded under the roof, the night that her life forever changed.

Annie shivered, rubbed her wrist with her left hand and dropped her head. With a deep breath and barely an ounce of resolve, she placed one foot in front of the other and approached the door. The voice in the back of her head shouted for her to stop, to turn around, get in her car and go home. She pressed onward, driven by an unseen force. It shoved her toward her past, stumbling toward the open entryway, toward the inevitable collapse of the walls she'd built around her to protect her from this exact collision.

I Do So Love the Bunnies...

Amid the myriad of books which line the shelves in the playroom sit a couple of items, little gems, I couldn't help but share with my boys. They're powerful, sentimental, and all around important to me. These loosely bound, lovingly used and aged, weathered and worn allegories are lessons I desperately want to teach my tinys.

One of them is The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams:          

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. ”You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”        

I'm often surprised by the lessons I work so hard to instill in my little men, and how I can be so focused on teaching, wrapped up in molding and creating powerful and confident men, that I forget to stop and listen myself.            

Teaching them to believe in their authenticity. Teaching them it's okay to be vulnerable, to fail, to not be as good as others. Teaching them there are lessons in every action. Teaching them that making a mistake and hurting someone you love is natural, it's a process, and as long as it comes with remorse and genuine contrition, it's fully acceptable. Teaching them that play is as important as work. Teaching them that allowing people to treat them poorly is doing a disservice to both sides of that equation. Teaching them that they are not defined by society but merely by what they find in themselves.

Those who know me well know that I don’t really do emotions.  I’m not a crier, and I don’t tend to share the things which I associate with emotions.  I don’t like to sleep in front of people, I don’t talk much about how I’m really feeling, and I often smile and say “I’m fine. No Worries. I’m stronger than I look.”  As major life changes unfolded, I told very few people of them.  I don’t talk up things I’m excited about, and I don’t disclose the things which upset me.

Except with my kids. 

They see me laugh. They see me cry.  My boys know the anger in my voice, the dread, the concern.  They know when I’m worried.  My dynamic duo play on the floor next to me while I sleep, curl up in my arms and wish me well when I’m ill, remind me that I’m everything when I feel like nothing. 

When my baby was less than three, he’d walk up to me on days where I wore a dress, swing around holding on to the hem of the skirt, and smile up at me with his chubby cheeks. “Mommy, you a princess? You’re boooootiful.”

To them, there are no flaws.  I’m not cracked, damaged, soiled.  I carry no extra pounds, wear no scars, adorn no wrinkles.  My laughter is music, my soft spots are perfect places to land. To my boys, I am real and anyone who doesn’t see it through their eyes simply doesn’t understand.