Another New Year; Another Broken Resolution

Each Year I, like a large majority of Americans, make a list of resolutions…in my case these resolutions consist of things I love, but have little time to accomplish, that enhance my mental, physical, and spiritual well-being. Every New Year, I have the best intentions of beginning and following through on my plans; again a very common trait among humanity. However, it always seems that life gets in the way. Managing the household, while giving two girls and a husband the necessary attention, not only occupies the majority of my day, but also zaps my energy, leaving me exhausted and drained in the very time slot (the evening) that I have to take care of my own wants and needs. 

 My resolutions have varied over the years. Some are very common; get into better shape, eat healthier, cut out the SUGAR. Others are somewhat specific to myself; write more often, read more ferociously, finally get around to learning all the idiosyncrasies of my camera. However varied, each resolution is born of the same intentions and each resolution dies of the same malady. Each year, I feel a considerable disappointment in myself for my inability to balance my own needs with others, negating the positive effect resolutions are intended to have.

Therefore, this year, I am resolving to make, and break, my resolutions regularly. In doing so, I hope to eliminate the guilt that accompanies breaking a resolution, which often feels more like an obligation. Instead, I hope to pick up my pen and a book when life allows, and to feel inspired by the words I write and read, instead of frustrated by writers block and a feeling of apathy towards books in general. I vow to run when I can, walk when I don’t feel like running, and relax when walking feels as if it is a burden.  Most of all, I resolve to try and be human; wonderfully flawed and highly imperfect.

That Warm Fuzzy Feeling (AKA Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas)

     Each year, come November, I indulge in a guilty pleasure; one that my husband despises, and my eldest daughter does not understand. It is a pleasure that begins to excite me months before it airs. A pleasure that never ceases to make me cry, laugh, and smile from ear to ear. Indulging in this pleasure, creates a warm fuzzy feeling deep in my gut, which ultimately grows and spreads, resulting in a radiating warmth that negates the dark chill of winter. It is Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas.
     Hallmark Christmas Movies are completely formulaic. The characters often lack depth and personality. The acting is less than stellar. The men are very often far better looking than the women they fall in love with (yes, periodically the women are far better looking than the men). The conflicts created are simplistic and could be easily solved by a simple conversation amongst its characters. However, pride and fear keep communication from occurring immediately, creating the perfect formula for a two hour special. Despite these factors, Hallmark Christmas Movies never cease to move me. To surround me in the magic of  Christmas. Whether it is the guarantee of a happy ending, one that embraces the magical spirit of Christmas, or a human desire to believe in hope and love, I am unsure, but Hallmark Christmas specials caress me like the warm summer sun.
     For all of these reasons, and I am sure some unspoken reasons, my husband dreads the Countdown to Christmas. He not only considers Hallmark movies unwatchable tripe, but refuses to occupy a room in which a Hallmark movie is airing. My daughter looks at me like I have four heads for not believing that Disney Junior not only has the best shows on TV, but also the most fun and hilarious characters in existence.
     Thus each November and December I find myself in the most rare and unfortunate of circumstances, alone and undisturbed in a room watching a show that only I want to watch.

My Blog (and running career) Revisited

In May of last year, both my blog and my "career" as a runner came to a screeching halt. Although several of my previous blogs regarded running, the two, in general were unrelated; or so I thought.

Over the past year, a plethora of life changing events have occurred, providing me with an overflowing chalise of writing material. However, despite endless thoughts and intentions of cracking open my computer and composing "masterpieces", I felt neither motivated nor inspired. I have, for quite some time, attributed my lack of fire to stress, exhaustion, and an endless schedule filled with appointments and extra-curricular activities; though these factors cannot be discounted, the past month has taught me a lesson I have learned many times in the past, but seem to have difficulty grasping and applying practically each day despite life's bumps and bruises.

The lack of motivation and passion I felt for writing throughout the year carried over into running. After healing from my injury and being given the "go ahead" from my physical therapist, I simply had no desire to run.  Frustrated with my inability to bounce back quickly, I once again attributed my lack of fire to external factors, traveling throughout most of the summer, the craziness of a new school year, a new child in the house and the onset of winter. The only activity I found myself able to perform with regularity was walking; and oh did I walk, even in below freezing temperatures. I walked to maintain sanity during, what turned out to be, a never ending winter. I told myself that with the onset of warmer spring temperatures, time settling into a new routine with two children, and a less hectic schedule as the school year came to an end, I would find myself ready and willing to once again lace up my running shoes and hit the pavement. Neither my schedule, nor the weather cooperated. 

After several months of endlessly wet days, Vermont finally received the gift of sunshine (Though it was not to stay. The days continue to be a mix of rain, clouds, and sunshine) igniting two small sparks, one in my brain and one in my body, a pulsing desire to both write and run. 

Which came first, the chicken or the egg, remains unclear. However, as soon as I hit the pavement a plethora of coherent blog postings inundated my brain, driving my feet faster and pushing me through the physical pain inevitable after a year without running. 

Last night, as I contemplated these words, I was reminded of several past blog postings regarding the link between my running and my writing. Despite my past assertiveness that my writing and running were independent entities, this past year has reminded me that both are essential to my physical and mental health. And though my writing is not, and does not have to be exclusively about running, it is their relationship to each other that allows me to maintain some semblance of sanity, clarity, and intellect.

I am, therefore making a promise to myself, to maintain both, despite life's craziness, because running my feet over the ground and my fingers over the key board are those actions that allow me to cope with life's everyday stresses and exhaustion.