In the Know

As we walked into Nike Headquarters Canada, I felt like I was entering a secret society like the Illuminati, the Masons, or the group of people who can assemble Ikea furniture in less than an hour (and without curse words). Firstly, there was no sign with the name “Nike” on the building, simply a signature swoosh on one corner.

Once inside, I felt like I was a cast member in a sci-fi movie. Everything was modern, glass and chrome and secret doors everywhere. However, I was catapulted by to 21^st century when the rep showed up. I found him to be rather an anomaly in this futuristic setting. Half his head was shaved and he appeared to prefer the use of ink to clothe his body rather than the traditional--well--clothes. I found this odd considering he was trying to get companies to buy clothes. He did manage a pair of shorts and a tank top barely covering his hyper designed skin.

Apparently he was a runner. This did not fare well as I was there to learn about soccer cleats, of which he knew very little. But, it was his attitude, not his appearance, that got my hackles up, creating a prejudice that would not step aside.

He was rude, elitist and condescending. I wasn't a happy bunny, especially since I wear Nike almost exclusively. The whole experience made me think about athletic companies in general.

The thing that strikes me about many of these companies is I believe they are trying to create a little mystery, mostly by the pronunciation of their names. They like to keep the general public guessing, as very few of them are straightforward. You hear the word “Nike” said two ways consistently and I am not even able to count how many variations of “Saucony” I have heard.

Why do they do this? I believe it is to create an aura of mystery, elitism and to see if you are really in the club. If you can pronounce it right, you are truly an athlete, a member of those 'in the know'.

Well, I believe we should all be 'in the know' so I am going to crack open the code. Move over Dan Brown, I'm going to solve mysteries even Robert Langdon might find challenging. Forget anti-matter and the Pope, I've got the inside track on how to say “Puma” correctly.

So, let's do this in alphabetical order, shall we. After years of research, I am here to give you the answers you've been looking for. Let's start with the As.

Addidas. Looks simple enough. This one is a little tricky because it depends where you live. If you are in North America, you should pronounce this Add DEE Das. However, if you are European and you said it like that you would be looked at as if you had three heads. In Europe, it is said Addy DAS. Since Puma and Addidas are rival companies owned by two German brothers—a fascinating backstory—I think the second pronunciation is probably how the owner says it.

Asics. The name of the company "ASICS" is an acronym of the Latin phrase "anima sana in corpore sano" which translates to "a healthy soul in a healthy body" or "a sound mind in a sound body”. I nearly choked on my green tea latte one time--while in a store a patron asked to look at the  employee's ASS-icks. I don't know how the attendant kept it together, but he did. If someone asked me if they could look at my ASS-icks, I think I'd slap them. The “A” is a long vowel sound. Trust me. It is. So, please, do yourself, me and the 18 year old part time employee at the sports store a favour and ask for EH-sicks please. Just do it. Oh, wait, that is Nike's slogan...

Nike. This is Greek, named for a god. And, judging by that rep's attitude, some of the employees think they are gods. So, in Greek, anything ending in an e is pronounced 'ee'. So, although many people say Nike, rhyming with bike, it is actually Nike, rhyming with Mikey.

Saucony. A lot of people say sah-CONEY (rhyming with pony). However, the name itself comes from the Saucony Creek in Pennsylvania. The correct pronunciation is SOCK-ah-knee. I've even heard sauce-ney which sounds more like some type of ice cream topping than sneakers.

Puma. Only two options here. One sounds slightly off-colour, kind of in the vein of Asics. Pooh-ma. Nope, not that. It is Pume (rhyming with doom) ma.

There you have it. You are now in the club. No more mystery, no more guessing. You should be good, until, of course, you decide to pick up that Sugoi shirt...

Nine

Nine.

Nine is the number my grandson forgot to mention in this video:

It is the final single digit in the course of counting.

It is a perfect square, divisible by 3.

In minutes, it’s long enough to make a really good sandwich

or take a nice hot shower.

Maybe to vacuum the main floor of the house, clean the bathroom or drink a good latte,

In nine minutes you can check your emails, facebook, phone messages and twitter.

Nine.

Until yesterday, nine represented the distance in qualifying minutes between Boston and me.

Nine.

Now, nine means something different.

Nine is the number of candles on a cake that 8-year-old bombing victim, Martin Richard will never see.  As he sat there innocently with his family, watching the race, he was robbed of his life, not yet nine.

Martin is described by neighbours and friends as a vivacious boy who loved to run and climb; he was a member of a little league.

I can imagine him excited, wonder-filled and enjoying the glorious hype that comes with the power of collective racing, running, enjoying, being.

He enjoyed running.

He will never see nine.

Martin, I have never met you but I honour you and cry for your family. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for every time I have ever said, “If I ran Boston, I could die happy.”

I didn’t mean it. I am sorry for my flippancy and lack of respect for life.

My mind can’t handle ‘what if’ when I think of all the times friends and family have watched me race.

If I could hug your family--I can’t begin to imagine their pain--I would. I pray that your community and the world surrounds them and gives them some type of peace.

I am so sorry this happened. You deserved better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thank God there are also numbers greater than nine.

As I watched footage of the disaster, I saw dozens of support personnel rushing in to help. I saw lists of homes, eager to house and feed stranded runners. I heard of runners, weary from their race running straight to the hospital to give blood.

I saw compassion, love, hope, help, so insurmountable it can’t be quantified by numbers.  On this world stage where unspeakable evil occurred, we also witnessed people performing good in unlimited measure .

Let’s not forget to give our attention to those that saw an opportunity to help, to be of assistance, to try in the most horrible circumstance to be of some good.

They say what we feed, grows. My prayer today is that goodness expands.

Moving Therapy

 

A while back, when Lyndsay, Karen and I walked into a running store, we saw a shirt with the phrase, “Running—cheaper than therapy” across the front. 

Lyndsay, who was nursing a meniscus injury was in the midst of visiting every medical therapist known to humankind replied, “…unless you require therapy in order to run.”

I started to think about it. There is some truth in the slogan. Sadly, I am aware of the price of both activities—running and therapy—and on many levels I believe running is a form of moving therapy.

I think back to my 46^th birthday. I went for a run; the most memorable run of my life. It wasn’t a race or a particularly beautiful day. I wasn’t running with friends or in a great mood. But, I was holding onto some pent up stress. I ran. By myself. Fast. Furiously. Crying. Screaming. Out loud. I ran until it was all out, left behind and dissipating with every footstep; stress juiced from every cell, dripping away, splashig into oblivion. It felt amazing.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve been able to run properly. After the Around the Bay race I felt a twinge in my knee on my next run, rendering me useless by kilometer 4. I stopped and decided to rest a few days. The weekend long run was disastrous, leaving Karen to run ahead to get help. Synchronicity was at work that day, because she ran into Denise, one of our running partners, driving home with her family. They came and rescued me. Relieved and a bit embarrassed I hobbled into the van, allowing them to drive me to the safety of the running store.

It’s frustrating because my knee isn’t sore. I can walk without any pain and it only shows up when I’m well into a run. I decided to get professional help so I consulted Dr. Google and self-diagnosed the problem as not my knee itself but a tight IT band probably pulling up on the outside of my knee. 

I should have tried to run again right away but I was scared. I was scared that I wouldn't be able to do something that I have loved for the past three years ever again.  It’s a daunting thought—like a world without Kawartha Dairy’s mint chocolate ice cream or no more Starbuck’s unsweetened green tea lattes with organic soy milk. My mind just doesn’t want to go there.

But, it’s time to face my fear. Besides noticing that I am just starting to lose my fitness, my muscle tone—I am totally losing my mind. This became painfully obvious to me yesterday.

Now, generally I try not to engage in fruitless debate or differing opinions, especially in public forums such as facebook.  However, occasionally I involuntarily get sucked in when something gets under my skin. I am generally A-political but sometimes extreme right wing comments can set me off and now, apparently, I can add genetically modified seed to that list of hot topics. (You had to read that twice, didn’t you?). Yep, GMO.

A seemingly innocuous comment set fire to the rages in my brain and I threw up everything I felt about GMO to someone I have never met—all over my neighbour’s facebook page, and not eloquently I might add. (Sorry Sharon). I was like an animal possessed with rabies. I couldn’t help myself. All testy and prickly, I engaged. It was so bad my daughter called me and told me she didn’t need television anymore for entertainment. All she needed to do was watch me on facebook. (I am not joking).

I can’t afford therapy and my shoes are paid for. It is time to start running again. 

Four kilometers and no knee pain. The neighbour kid came by trying to sell me ‘meat’ for a fundraiser for his baseball team and I didn’t bite his head off. Things are getting better on the western front.

In a phone conversation with Karen this week, we talked about the most blissful place to be—where the spiritual and physical world collide. And, that is sometimes where running takes me—it’s moving therapy; a sacred space. I’d like to leave you with a post by Karen that is absolutely beautiful:

The other day I was asked "what are you running from?". I gave the standard runner’s answer of "it is what I am running to." I am positive they walked away rolling their eyes. On a spring run like today it was all about where I went. Not the forest I run by or the scenic street...you can't see it with the plain eye. There are only a few doorways to get there. Call it meditation, connecting with the Universe and feeling the essence behind what is. It's a secret lying inside that you somehow understand. So it doesn't matter if it is 5K or 42.2, you can still travel far off this planet. But I do think that explains why some choose to run a longer distance, it is more time in the sacred space.

Choo Choo...(train to race, race to train)

I know she must be a special client when Logan, the chiropractor’s nine-year-old daughter brings over a magazine and two packets of candies.

“These are for you,” she politely says.

“What’s that dear?” the patient answers.

“It’s your favourite magazine and the ginger candies you like,” Logan persists.

I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet and the candies looked good. I wonder what I need to do to get on this preferential client list. I didn’t know chiropractic offices offered Club Class. It is obvious I am flying Economy.

It doesn’t surprise me, exactly, as Mildred (I would later learn her name), demands attention the second she enters the waiting room. I am not sure if it is her flashy, high tech New Balance running shoes or her fluorescent pink faux fur fuzzy hat so much as the confidence that sloughs off into the air with each step she takes. The incongruence between her high fashion ware and her white hair whispers to me that she is probably in her seventies. 

It isn’t long until she, Mildred, starts chatting up the man next to her. 

“These are ginger candies. I like ginger. I’ve used it for years.”

The man smiles politely and nodded.

“The doctor askeed me why I’m in such good shape.” She didn’t wait for the gentleman to jump into the conversation, “I told him I am fortunate.”

Ah, what a lovely thing to say, I think. It was the next part of the conversation that floors me.

“I’m ninety-four.”

After I picked my jaw off the floor I sneak another peak. Her skin could give Cindy Crawford a run for her money. Maybe Aveeno made a mistake in picking their next poster child! Move over Jennifer Anniston, here comes Mildred!

“I fold the napkins for dinner at the home.” She continues. “I get lots of compliments on them.”

The man beside her doesn’t know how to carry the conversation on.

“Well, you look fantastic,” I jump in. 

“Yes. I am fortunate. I believe life is what you make it. You know? Life is what you make it.”

With that exclamation, Mildred sprints into the next available exam room.

I learn from her kind nephew that Mildred Jardine has been coming for acupuncture/chiropractic care for years. She and her husband lived about four doors down from the office. After her husband passed a few years back her younger sister moved in and the two got along splendidly until her sister was tragically hit and killed by a bus about 5 years ago. Mildred then had to move out of town to a care home. Her nephew has been taking her into the chiropractor once a month ever since.

“She used to go more often, but this is all I can handle with work and everything.” He confesses. The journey each way is at least a 45 minute drive.

I only spent a few minutes with Mildred but I know I like her. I find out she lived a healthy, active life, ate well and did things like juicing and paid attention to herbs such as ginger.  She made me smile and feel good and that was exactly what I needed on the day I headed down to Hamilton to prepare for the Around the Bay race.

At the best of times this is a precarious race. History has repeatedly and consistently taught me that I run marathons at a faster pace even though marathons are 12.2 km longer than this 30 km jaunt. Maybe it is the distance that messes with my head or the crazy hills--some barely passible by mountain goats--that come in the final third of this gruelling test of mind and body.

I want to complete this race in less than 3 hours. Sounds easy enough, but this race beats me every year in one way or another. However, this time, I have a plan. I will start out slowly, conserve my energy but stay at a pace slightly faster than required. Then I can slow down for the final 10 km and still make my goal.

We’re all a little worried. And, by ‘little’, I mean ‘enormously, lose control of all bodily functions’ nervous. I had been sick, hadn’t put the required training in this horrible winter. Karen just came back from a vacation in Mexico, literally getting off the plane the night before travelling to Hamilton for the race. She had taken carb loading and taper week to a whole new level. She was convinced she would be sweating mojitos. And, Lyndsay had the worst condition of all. She had been throwing up the day before, thinking it was possible food poisoning from bad cold slaw from a restaurant. (I need to talk to her about eating anything remotely related to cabbage the week before a race).

My weakness--well, one of many weaknesses--is I have a tendency to bolt out of the gate too quickly. This especially becomes a problem when I attempt to stay with Karen. So, I make a solemn pledge to myself to stick to the plan. In the first few meters into the run, Karen looks back at me and says, in realization, “You’re not even going to try to run with me at the beginning?”

I shake my head shamefully as I hang back. I feel like I just murdered a puppy or turned my best friend into the police for rolling through a stop sign. How could I not even try?

No, stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Lyndsay  kindly keeps me company.  The weather is amazing and I decide to take in the views and sunshine. I am so proud of myself for making a plan and sticking to it. What is it they say?:  If you fail to plan you plan to fail.

The idiot that said that didn’t bother to check the schedule for the Canadian National Railway. 

At approximately 9 km I blink. 

“Is this for real?” I hear myself say aloud.

Before me is a sea of probably a thousand runners all stopped as a very long train rattles across the road.

What I experience next is magical and the most memorable part of the whole race. Expecting anarchy; an angry mob throwing the vehicle off its tracks, I am amazed at what I see. 

I witness people smiling, laughing, dozens scattering into ditches and nearby brush to ‘take care of business’, groups clumping together, taking pictures of their smiling faces with the train in the background, friends chatting, strangers laughing, people hugging, drinking, eating, calling loved ones on their cell phones!

A few flat cars go by, making it look like the last of the train has gone by to those of us near the back of the pack, only to see more full-sized cars show up. The collective laughs at our folly!

It could have been a moment of disappointment, anger or resentment. Instead, the group chose to use these five minutes (Karen timed it) as a gift, a thing of beauty, a moment to do something important. I smile. Mildred was right, “Life is what you make it.”

I still try to achieve my goal of 3 hours, but I can’t quite make up the time before I am knocked back by the hilly terrain. Instead, I give every kid with an outstretched hand a high five. I notice the wonderful cheering squad of Keith, Jane and Linda at km 18 and the amazing sign Linda made for us, complete with sparkly letters and a map. I take the time to look across the bay, notice the beautiful homes, and the rolling--and not so rolling--hills. 

I run into Copps Coliseum four minutes after that 3 hour mark has passed. Eager not to have a repeat performance of last year (an unfortunate incident in the back seat of Karen's mom's car. Fortunately we had a bag handy) I pop two gravol pills and find my wonderful people.  Karen, Lyndsay and I laugh about the train, the day, the race.

I didn’t realize it at the time because I was so transfixed on my 3 hour goal, but all three of us actually had a personal best finishing time for this race despite the train (and lack of train-ing). We are so fortunate!

Life is what we make it and an unexpected, beautiful by-product of this happens to be we are fortunate. 

Thanks, Mildred. I guess after ninety four years you certainly know what you are talking about.

What a great day! A special shout out to Lyndsay for running with me, Karen for the endless rides, support and guidance, Jane, Keith (and Mitsee) for the wonderful hospitality…I think I left my pillow at your house, and to Linda for your enthusiasm and high quality signage!

The Upside of Anger

Karen, Lyndsay, Jan and I ran Hamilton’s Road 2 Hope Marathon just over a week ago. Getting together for a debriefing of our running experience, we enjoyed breakfast.

It was a marathon of many firsts. Jan was the first to prove that you can actually finish a marathon in good time without much training (due to an injury, not choice). Lyndsay was the first to employ a new  very high tech motivational technique that I could see future Olympians using. While in the latter half of the race her sister Jessica ran beside her with an iphone, allowing Lyndsay’s other bed-ridden very pregnant sister Krista to cheer her on via video-conferencing and push her to keep going when she wanted to quit. And, of course Karen brought in a few first of her own. She was first of us women to finish under 4 hours but in my opinion, her most impressive first was to be the first of us to throw up on course (yay Karen!). I am a little jealous, actually. I think this esteemed position should have belonged to me as when it comes to running and upchucking, I feel  am somewhat of a champion. I am going to take a leaf from her book and possibly give this strategy a go next time--maybe if Iose my cookies during a race, I won’t need to during the after party!

Then, the topic of race anger emerged. And, when it comes to road rage, apparently Lyndsay is Queen.  It is sometimes hard for me to take her seriously--although I know she is serious--because she is the sweetest person alive. However, when she expresses anger, it is like seeing a three year old decked out in a skull and cross-bones bandana. You know it is a skull and cross-bones bandana, but somehow it just looks cute on a sweet innocent child.

As Lyndsay recounted her various pet peeves while running, one seemed to stand out. When she is in the upper kilometers of a marathon, the smell of body odour puts her into a rage. Unfortunately, body odour after running 30 kilometers is pretty much a given. So, needless to say, I am glad I wasn’t next to her for that part of her run!

I’ve found that I’ve been experiencing more than my usual dose of anger lately. It is with great hesitation and trepidation that I share this story. Please don’t judge too harshly. People who live in glass houses and he without sin and all that…

I was having a bad day to start with. But, I was running and running fast. I was pushing the limits and putting my soul into each step during a neighbourhood run when I ran by a large, scary motley gang of juvenile hoodlums. (Okay, it was a small group of what looked to be three clean cut twelve year old school boys.) They decided it would be fun to jeer out chants and screams of “Run, run, run…oooh, look at her go. Run faster.” The words sounded innocent enough but their tone was evil. I’m going to let you in on a secret. People who run do not want you to comment. And, by the way “Run Forrest, Run” is not funny, clever, new or remotely cool. It is just annoying.

What happened next is embarrassing and possibly a new base level to my existence. I am not proud. And, when I tell you, you will be shocked. Or, at least I hope you will be shocked. I shocked myself.

The flock of boys caught me on the wrong day. I sized them up. Judging by the general rotund nature of their physique, the velocity with which I was travelling, the fact that I was about to go downhill and, upon first glance, they didn’t look to be armed I made a snap judgement call. A bad one, but a judgement call all the same. They looked like the only exercise they got was picking on smaller children or tormenting toads, I figured I could easily outrun them.

Now, I should preface this event with some background. For 15 years I was a teacher. An elementary school teacher. In fact, for the most part I taught twelve year olds. I prided myself with being calm, level headed and nurturing. And, in 1994 I was even honoured with an award called the “Award of Excellence” where I was nominated by my peers for my classroom, school and community contributions to society. Ha! If they could see me know I’m sure they’d ask for it back.

It’s a good thing that I am no longer a paying member of the Ontario College of Teachers, because I am pretty sure I would have been stripped of my membership.

With one fatal motion, I raised my hand high right after passing the boys and then I gave them a gesture. Not a nice gesture. In fact, a rather rude gesture. A gesture that would have sent me to the principal’s office had I been twelve years old instead of someone who was thirty four years their senior and should know a whole lot better. This was a new level of low.

It was the fuel that ignited the intensity and volume of their jeers. I remember hearing myself speak to myself over the blaring of my ipod, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Anger.

Then, about a week later there was the whole de-friending incident on facebook. One of my ‘friends’, an American (that alone should say it all) was quite hyped up about their election and was constantly posting rather opinionated political comments and links. I am not particular political and generally don’t get involved in debating or bashing. I do have my personal opinions but I attempt to stay respectful. To me, argument for argument’s sake is simply an ego feeding food that never satisfies. It is like high fructose corn syrup; feels good at the time, but just leaves you wanting more.

But, once again, that demon anger raised its head and I engaged against my better judgement. Unhappy with an article in The National Post my ‘friend’ commented that Canadians shouldn’t comment on U.S. politics and should stick to what they do best, hockey and maple syrup.

How wrong could that statement be? Doesn’t she know anything? We don’t do hockey well, we’re on strike.

I felt like a mouse looking at the cheese. It looks so good but you know as soon as you sink your teeth in it’s a trap. Did it any way. It went something like this:

     Me: Peter Jennings was a Canadian.

     Random Other American: Peter Who?

     I thought he was being sarcastic. He truly can’t be this uninformed

     Me: Not cool.

     Random Other American: Didn’t recognize the name.

     I realize now the dude is serious. He’s never heard of Peter Jennings. I see in his profile he is in the U.S. military. Oh boy.

     Me: link to Peter Jennings in Wikipedia

     Random Other American: Sorry, didn’t know who he was.

     Me:  Well, he was one of the most well-known U.S. political news anchors and he was born in Toronto…but what do I know. I’m just a Canadian commenting on U.S. politics.

My momentary high came crashing down when I realized what I wrote. Why was I engaging in this conversation? I deleted all my posts, sent a quick note to my ‘friend’ respectfully explaining that I did not wish to use facebook as a political platform, wished her love and then defriended her.

Why was I experiencing so much anger? I kept thinking about anger because I couldn’t see any upside to it. Why do we experience such an devastating emotion? Why does it exist? This past week I’ve been oozing, sweating it out with every breath. It seems to be so negative. It eats at my stomach, consumes my thoughts and makes me feel horrible.

Then, one possible answer came to me when most good things come to me, on a run.  I don’t believe we are meant to live with anger. However, to everything there is a season and a purpose under the sun. And, I believe it exists for a reason and that reason is a temporary flag.

I came to the conclusion that anger is a bridge, a warning signal, a flashing yellow light, a transition emotion. I think it exists to get us to pay attention and let us know we need to deal with something. It is necessary to help us prioritize what requires attention immediately. It is the emotional equivalent to bleeding. As long as you have breath and a heart beat, the next order of first aid is to stop the bleeding. You can't live with profuse bleeding forever. It has to be curbed.

For me, anger doesn’t just dissipate all by itself. I can try to ignore it and simply replace it with happy thoughts but it bubbles up in the most inopportune times and then innocent children or facebook friends suffer…I don’t like feeling angry. In fact, I find it quite yucky (that is the psychological word for it). So, how can I get rid of this nasty, horrible emotion? Sometimes it feels as complicated as defusing a bomb…until I went for a run.

The way I see it, there are only 2 possible reactions. It may be over simplified, but I’m a simple person.

One reaction to anger is to view it as a call to arms and fight whatever you are angry with. But, this doesn’t make sense because you are just perpetuating an enemy…which in turn breeds more anger.  You have to be angry to fight and fighting makes you angry.

The alternate reaction is to accept whatever you are angry with and take action by focussing on the world of possibilities. As far as I can tell this is the only way to transition from anger to someplace new.

There are all these angry campaigns to fight war, discrimination, crime, terrorism, famine, heart disease and cancer. Instead, how about a call to see war, discrimination, crime, terrorism, heart disease and cancer as it is, then envision and focus on the great possibilities of peace, inclusion, kindness, tolerance, health and abundance.

Accept what is, and put your energy toward all the best possible outcomes. Because isn’t that what life is, possibilities? As far as I can tell, at least from how I see things today, this is the only upside to anger.

Blindsided

I received a call this week that took me by surprise. “Knocked me for six” as the cricket expression goes.

-----------------------------------

Our next scheduled marathon was coming up and I was blindsided in the peak of training with a horrible cold. In the previous marathon Karen was injured doing yard work during the height of conditioning. And now, I opened the email that almost brought me to tears. Lyndsay was hit with a torn meniscus. We knew her knee was hurting, but we kept rationalizing it away, coming up with every reason except the real one.

I called her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Ok.”

“What is the verdict?”

“Well, the doctor says I can run short distances and we’ll take it from there. But, there is a chance I won’t run the race.”

“Oh no.”

“But its okay. It is good to be blindsided, isn’t it?”

I am confused and glad that she can't see my face through the phone line because she would see me staring at her incredulously like she had three heads.

“Is it?” I obviously was the oldest but not the most mature in this situation.

“Yes, it helps you put things into perspective.”

Oh, that.

“I guess so.” I draw out my answer more of a question than a statement.

It doesn’t seem fair. You set your sights and state your goal, you devise a plan and stick to it. You train 6 months and something little like a cold, a slip in the yard and small tear in a ligament or a stomach bug can end the race before it begins.

Sidelined.

The past year has been full of sidelines. Karen lost her beloved cat, Harley and we lost our dog, Hank, exactly one month later. My roommate from university is helping her husband live with an unexpected aggressive cancer and my son’s girlfriend has lost her job. In my small circle of friends and neighbours, people are dealing with family breakups, loss of jobs, deaths, suicides and sickness. And, that is only the things I know about. Who knows what silent, intimate struggles people are battling in their hearts?

One man I know, Brad and his family got some crazy news a few weeks back I am sure no one saw coming. I’ve known Brad from the moment he was born. He was a couple years my junior and his grandparents and my parents were best friends. And, although I would never classify Brad as a buddy, he was more than an acquaintance. It was one of those weird relationships that couldn’t really be pegged. We never really played together as kids, we never hung out as teenagers yet he was ‘there’. New Years, family parties, get-togethers; he was a present, like a friendly wallpaper. As our lives continued I would hear about what he was up to via his Grandmother who kept me abreast of the major landmarks in his life. I’ve never kept in touch and have seen him maybe twice since we were adults but still consider him not quite family, not exactly a friend but more than an acquaintance—a really unique grey area. Currently he lives in Southern California.

I got an email from his mother…what started out as unexplained bruising ended up being acute myelogous leukemia. Surprise!

Recovery is a real and wonderful possibility, however, I am sure it will be a long road.  Couldn’t help but be touched by one of his facebook posts:

So, here I am in the hospital with a blood-based disease (AML type M3, you can google it). From what I can tell, I’m using way more than my fair share of Platelets, one of the blood components that contributes to clotting. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to donate blood due to the disease that I have, but I’d encourage any of you, my friends and family, to strongly consider making a small trip to a donation center and giving a pint of blood.

Don’t do it because it might save my life or someone else that you know and love, do it because it might save some random stranger’s life and they’ll be grateful for the opportunity that you have given them even if your paths never cross.

Anyway, I hope this didn’t fall under the “too long didn’t read” category for too many of you, and I hope that you all are having a wonderful day today. Here in Southern California beyond the walls of my room the weather looks to be wonderful.

Enjoy the day!

I’ve done some good things in my life. Given to charities, donated time, bought Girl Guide cookies. However, I am sad to admit I have NEVER donated blood in my entire 46 years. I am a little, shall we say, squeamish about needles or anything medical for that matter. But, if I can run 42.2 km surely donating blood can’t be that bad. This is on top of my to-do list after recovering from the marathon.

Brad’s post made me think. What if we’ve got it all wrong? We think that life is setting goals, then working towards them. Plotting a course then keeping your heading. But, what if the essence of life is the obstacles and our goals are simply avenues to getting blindsided? Maybe the real accomplishments are listening to a neighbour who needs to talk, making that platter of food for a funeral, taking someone out for coffee, helping someone look for a new job, sending an encouraging text….giving blood! Maybe running marathons, getting that promotion, obtaining that certification are simply the true examples of us getting blindsided from our real purpose. If that is the case, then Lyndsay was right. Being blindsided is good.