Six Minute Writing Exercise

Write for 6 minutes and don't stop. See what happens. Here's my (edited) 6:

**

Lazily strumming her guitar, Layla sprawled out upon the grass, grinning to herself. She looked up at the sky, noticing a cloud shaped like a giraffe, and she brushed her long jet-black hair out of her eyes. The sun beat down on her back and she ran her fingers through the lush grass, laying her guitar to her side and letting herself sink into the soft ground.

In the distance she heard whistling and she knew it was her sister, Maribelle, playing in the open field, a kite flying high above her head. Maribelle also had dark black hair and looked like a miniature version of her older sister. She tried her hardest to play guitar like Layla, but her 5-year-old fingers would not cooperate.

"Fly with me!" Maribelle cried out.

"Mari, go play for a bit, I'll be right there, sweetie," Layla had told her little sister fifteen minutes earlier.

Layla let her eyes fall shut. 

But when she opened her eyes and called out for Maribelle, she found no one.

Maribelle was not in the field, only her kite was left, the string spilling across the grass as it fell from the sky.

****

Obituary Searching

Tess searched for the obituary.

She typed in the name, checking on this woman she had never met but felt like she knew.

Incredibly morbid, yes. But a morbid curiosity to know the stranger's fate propelled Tess forward. She had only heard stories about the woman before, but having been effected by her existence, Tess felt that knowing the woman's fate was somehow very important.

You see, she cannot ask if the woman has died.

She can only wonder.

It wasn't hard to find out who she was, Tess had known early on who she was. And she had wanted her to live but sometimes she wished she'd go away and sometimes she wished she could just ask her questions.

But Tess knew the woman had red lips. Like her. And curls. Like her.

And Tess wants to know how the story ends.

She wants to know the rest of the stranger's story. She wants to know if the woman is at peace or if she fought and healed herself and healed her torched relationships and survived against all odds and experienced a miracle.

But she cannot ask. She can only wonder.

There is no obituary.

And though Tess supposes she won't ever meet the woman, nor does she think she'd ever want to, she hopes the woman has kept fighting.

Don't Backstep

Don't think on the past think on the future.

Don't look behind you look in front of you.

Don't worry about what you don't have be grateful for what you do have.

Know that there is a mystery greater than yourself that will unfold in time.

Keep faith that you are on the right path and that all is coming.

Be aware of what you need and don't settle for less.

The Universe is doing its job and you are listening to its messages.

Post Race Breakdown: Part 2: RACE DAY: The Good, the Bad, the Ugly. And Boy, did it get Ugly.

Flares rattled my body the week before the Tri. I was consumed with worry and stress and a sore throat which made me so tired I could barely imagine covering 32 miles in a few days. But with an emergency acupuncture appointment and the love and energy of my friends and family, I felt better by the big day and was able to get through the flare without destroying my body. I went to the Tri Expo, wide-eyed and horrified and excited the day before and bought more things I didn't realize I needed-- I bought Suit Juice, a compact towel, an emergency tire repair kit that I did not know how to use and I prayed to the Flat-Tire-Gods that I would not get a flat tire, because let's face it, I had no idea what it was I just bought.

Can you see the wide-eyed excitement/panic?

I sat on the living room floor of my apartment, a sea of gear and nutrition and expo pamphlets surrounding me, not knowing what to do first. I decided to start with putting on my temporary number tattoos. I peeled off the number stickers on placed them on my bike, on my helmet, on my bags, I stuffed nutrition and water and gels into the zipper of my backpack, I checked and re-checked my gear, marveled that the big day had finally arrived, took sleep meds to calm my mind and somehow by the grace of the Universe, I managed to get six hours of uninterrupted restorative sleep.

I woke up and took a shower to loosen my morning stiffness, acknowledged that I didn't feel horrible, had two waffles with peanut butter and a banana (surely that is a triathlete's breakfast), took my vitamins and my green powder, and Kajal picked me up at 4am. We loaded up and took off. Timing wise we got to the transition area with about 30 minutes before it closed up. We needed to be out of transition by 5:45am. I set all of my things down, not knowing exactly how to set my gear up, but I did the best I could. I said a little prayer to the Transition Gods, and went on my way. I found Kajal waiting for me on the grass and we made our way to the Chicago Triathlon tent that was just setting up.

All I could think was, THREE HOURS.

I have THREE HOURS before I am set to start.

My Tri Mama, Kajal.

I was plagued by many things the day of the tri, but one of the worst curses was the fact that I was placed in the LAST wave of International triathletes. This meant that, yes, I had to wake up at 3 am, but I would not be competing until 9:20am. Three hours of nerves, three hours of watching other athletes start, three hours of saying goodbye to Kajal and the other CTCers as they made their way to the water,  three hours of the sun getting higher and brighter and peaking in the 90s, three hours of psyching myself out.








I finally started to get my wetsuit on around 9am and I walked purposefully down to the line that was forming for the 46th wave. While in line, I ran into my friend, Keely, whose husband had just finished the Sprint Distance. "How'd it go!!!???" I asked him. "Horrible!" he said. He looked proud he'd finished, but he was glad to be done. The swim had been hard for him. Keely snapped this pic of me as I waited to get in the water. Seeing them gave me a small burst of encouragement and the feeling that I could do this.

I'm about to jump in the lake!

Energy surged through me. I was so ready. I got my cap all set, I got my goggles ready. And I hopped in the water along with 150 or so other women between the ages of 31-34. We had 30 seconds or so to get used to the water, and then the officials shot the starter gun, and we were off!

The beginning was the best.

For that first half mile or so, I had calm strokes, I had even breathing, I was moving well.

And then everything started to unravel.

Unfortunately for me, the next wave after mine was the Relay. Relay teams have three different people to do each part of the tri, and the person who is strongest in a particular event takes that leg. We're talking swimmers who can do the mile in less than 20 minutes. All of a sudden, swimmers started taking over all the space around me. I had carved out a good position, but the fast relay swimmers swam around me, over me, in front of me, to the sides of me. WHERE DID THEY ALL COME FROM????? I thought, my brain not clicking right away that these were the relay swimmers.

My breathing started to become more shallow. The fast breaths dismantled my strokes and my heart started to pound. Instead of every four strokes like I had practiced, I breathed every two. I swallowed water and coughed up Lake Michigan.

And then my goggles fogged up.

But I had bought anti-fog goggles! What was happening!?

I stopped mid-stroke and took off my goggles, hoping I could unfog them. I put them back on and still was having trouble seeing. I didn't understand what was going on, but my heart and breathing were not cooperating with the one end goal of GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS WATER! I started to swim so  far right that I was straying off course towards one of the safety boats.

Well. I guess when you accidentally swim to a safety boat, you might as well use it. 

"Are you okay?" the volunteers asked me.
"Yeah..." I breathed.

This was not how I had envisioned my triumphant swim.

After about a minute of trying to calm down my exploding heart, I attempted freestyle again but it was no use. I resorted to back stroke, and then a minimalist back float, gliding on the water, catching my breath, alternating with a bit of freestyle whenever I felt I could manage. I could barely consider the fact that I was going outrageously slow--all I wanted was to get out of the water. I just wanted to get to that bike. I had not been concerned about the swim before the race at all. I had thought, "Well, yes, it will be slow, but I won't have any problems. Slow and steady."

I did not anticipate the nerves, the relay swimmers, the heart-rate, not being able to see, and back-floating my way to greatness. But this is how it was and all I could do was focus on getting out of the water.

I somehow managed to finish the swim with freestyle and got out of the water, breathing hard as I, at first, tried to run to transition, and then thought, "Hell No," and walked my way to a grassy area to pull off the rest of my wetsuit.

And I still couldn't see. It hit me that it had never been foggy goggles, I had lost my right contact.

Where was it!!!!? Was it in the water? Did it roll in back of my head? I rubbed my eyes, feeling around for a dislodged contact, but couldn't easily find anything without ripping open my pupils, so I figured:

"Well, my contact is either in the back of my eyeball or it's at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Guess I'm doing the rest of the Tri with one eye."

My vision is not horrendous but I do need my contacts in order to function. In an emergency I have used one contact, have even driven on the expressway with one contact (for 20 minutes), but have never engaged in 4 hours of physical activity with one contact.

And so it was.

I took my sweet-ass time in transition. Thirteen minutes to be exact. I ate half a Cliff bar. I dried off. I used the bathroom. I tried to slow down my breathing. And then I got my bike out and headed off onto Lakeshore Drive, doing my best to adjust to my new vision.

One of my biggest fears had been falling off my bike on the way up the ramp to Lakeshore-- that had been the biggest bike concern before the race had actually started (and possibly getting a flat). But now I was dealing with a different reality: my legs were gooey, my heart was still pounding, it was over 90 degrees by the time I had gotten out of the water, I had one contact that was messing up my speed and balance, and instead of the full water bottle I had prepped, I only had half a water bottle for 25 miles (the bottle I had brought had somehow gotten misplaced in Kajal's car that morning and I had been unable to locate another water bottle to set up in my bike).

Thing were not in my favor.

To add insult to injury, being the last wave of the race meant that I was very much racing solo. Not only was I the last wave, I was a SLOW athlete in the last wave with one contact and a wildly palpitating heart. That meant that all the other athletes in my wave had gone ahead of me and I was very much on my own, just hoping I was going the right way. At a certain point a string of athletes emerged from behind me and I felt a little less alone. They were on their second loop of the course and they zoomed by me with ease as I struggled to get to first turn around. By the time I finally did make it to the second loop, I was very much alone. That portion of the race was very surreal to me, as I rode my bike down Lakeshore Drive. Cars in a lane to the right of my zoomed by and I listened to the hum of motors as I focused on the road in front of me. At times I could barely maintain my emotion. Tears poked at my eyes as I realized how tired I was, but they also were tears of great pride and elation...

It occurred to me how very symbolic it was to have the road to myself.

This had always been a race with myself and no one else. There, on Lakeshore Drive, I raced myself. I raced my fear, I raced my doubt, I raced my confidence, I raced sadness, I raced my illness, I raced my heart. I challenged all of these things, and at one point, tears started streaming as I said out loud, "This is for you, Dad." I had just dedicated that moment of the bike ride to my Father. I started to ride for a greater meaning at that point. I started to ride for life. For existence. For the right to endure.

Cars kept driving past me in the lane to my right and I looked over at one of them and cried out "CHEER FOR ME!!!!!" It was a plea, it was a demand, it was a call to action. And the woman in the car looked surprised and a little shocked that this haggard athlete had just requested her support, but from her throat emerged this enthused "Whooooo!!!!!" As silly as it was, that little voice of encouragement helped push me forward, and in the distance I saw another biker who was also going slowly and I rode behind her and then next to her and then I called out in uniting agony, "We're doing it! We can do this!" She nodded at me and groaned her own personal story of pain and I rode in front of her, the one athlete I managed to pass on the course. I was dizzy with exhaustion and soft focus from my blurry eyes.

I started to sing to myself with what little breath I had left. I had 25 miles on this rickety blue bike, Merriweather, (I named my bike Merriweather when I bought her because she was old and curmudgeon-y and needed extra attention like the little Blue Fairy, Merryweather, in Sleeping Beauty) with very little water. I might have been starting to lose my mind a little, yelling at cars and singing and such. Whatever it takes, I thought. Just get through it. I came up to the end of the bike course, my emotion surging as I processed that I had just finished the second portion of the race. I half strolled, half ran back to the transition area, again taking my sweet time. I drank whatever water I had stashed in my gear to try to make up for the very dehydrating bike ride, and I put on the race belt with my number 7046 attached to it, very unsure how my run would go. I would probably be out in the sun for another hour and a half to two hours in what would be the most mentally and physically challenging part of this race for me.

It had always come down to the run. To the knee. To the last ounce of energy I had. Except I had nothing left. There was nothing left. I'm not sure I can properly convey how very little anything I had left in me. I had always been concerned on how a body with Fibromyalgia would respond to all of these events back to back, but now with the sun and the dehydration and the one contact and the bad knee, I had absolutely no energy. But this voice just kept telling me to find it, find something, find anything. And somehow, I found the fumes of determination and I kept going. I persevered. I pushed. I walked the first half mile trying to catch my breath, I stopped at every single water station, drinking as much as I could, dousing myself with water, sticking ice cubes in my hair. The sun was blazing. It was well over 91 degrees with no shade on the course.

And there was barely anybody left. The athletes who had started 3 hours before me, 2 hours before me, 1 hour before me---they had already made their way through this part of the course. The crowd was there for them. There was no one left for me. Every once in awhile in the beginning I would get a little cheer from people telling me to keep going, or a shout out from someone who recognized my Chicago Tri gear, "Chicago Tri Club!" they'd shout. But as I got further in, there was hardly anyone on the course. Even the volunteers were sparse at this point. There were regular joggers on the Lakeshore path at this point amongst the scattered leftover triathletes. I felt so sick I wasn't sure how I could possibly get through 6 miles. I started to run, a pathetic little jog, but I was surprised that the knee was holding up so I kept up with the scuffle. I hobbled up next to another man, one of the only people I'd seen on the run leg of the course, who looked to be struggling as I was. We acknowledged each other and jogged side by side for a minute, "I just want to finish this," he said suddenly. "Me too," I breathed. That's all I ever really wanted.

But fatigue overwhelmed me. I pulled back and stopped. "Come on, keep running," he called to me, half encouraging me,  half giving me a hard time. "I have to walk," I told him, and I watched him jog ahead of me and out of my view. I spent the next mile or two trying my hardest to keep going and I walked so very much of that time. I was again struck by how symbolic this was. It was an odd triathlon of my own, it all came down to mind over matter. Did I want this or did I not?  

...There is no one out there to make you finish this except yourself. There aren't crowds cheering for you. You need to cheer for yourself. You can do this. You will do this. This has always been your race. You've always been racing yourself. You've got this. And there is no way you aren't finishing this. You will crawl over that line if you have to but you will finish this...

I ran for a bit and then passed the Fire Station where the firemen had cracked open their water truck and were spraying all of Lakeshore path with a glorious burst of water to give the triathletes momentary refuge from the heat. I walked into the sweet water, the giving beautiful water, and let it drench me. It helped revive me from the sweltering sun. I looked to the firemen to my right and silently said "Thank you" and looked up to the sky and held my face in the downpour of the graceful water. After a bit, I summoned some strength and started jogging. I jogged for maybe a quarter of a mile, and all of a sudden, from my peripheral view, I saw an athlete hobbling toward me. It looked like she was skipping or limping. I thought for a second it was an athlete with one healthy leg and one metal running leg, teetering as she ran. But no.

It was HILARY!

My roommate, a runner herself, had asked me if she could run me in the last few miles. At first I wasn't sure--I had wanted to do this on my own, but the night before, I had welcomed the idea of Hil runing me in, knowing I would need morale. And I had needed it so badly at that point that I became overwhelmed when I saw her bundling towards me, overjoyed she had found me! I had forgotten that Hilary would be looking for me! My tracking hadn't been working and it had appeared I hadn't finished the bike portion, so she didn't know where I was or if I'd gotten sick, she just stuck by mile 3ish waiting for me, about to turn around and go home when she looked up and saw me. I started crying and we hugged as I told her I was never doing this ever again. She walked with me when I needed to walk, and she ran with me when I decided to run, and sometimes she would run and I would look ahead and tell her to stop it because I just couldn't, please stop running, I have to walk this, there's nothing left. It went like this for almost 3 miles.

I had run for almost 3 miles when I had thought I wouldn't be able to run at all.

And then I saw in the horizon the finish line.

Words can't quite describe the emotion that started to surge through my body as I caught sight of the finish line. I was so close. I had a quarter of a mile left to go and my body seized up with emotion. I had to stop for a moment and walk, and then I started again and tried to run, holding back tears, my body producing great heaves that threatened to turn into sobs of relief and joy. I half started crying, half started running faster, exhausted, overwhelmed-- unbelievable emotion like I'd never felt rippling through me. It was the rawest state of emotion I have ever felt coursing through my veins at an electric rate that both propelled me and left me breathless. It took hold of me and I as I got within 20 feet, a smile spreading across my face, I summoned any possible strength I had left and ran as fast as I could as I heard the announcer call to anyone that was in the immediate area to put their hands together for me.

I raised my arms in the air and held my head up high and smiled this grand smile of triumph as tears streamed down my cheeks... and I crossed that finish line in a strong run, my body immediately erupting in a loud sob. I bent my head to my knees, catching my breath, crying in great heaves, overcome with raw emotion. I have never experienced anything quite like that moment in my entire life.  The moment I completed my first Olympic Triathlon.

This makes it look like I finished in 8 hours. It was really 4:37. I'll take it!

I never stopped. I never let the setbacks take away this dream. I could have stopped before the Tri even started. I could have stopped after the swim. I could have stopped at any point.

But you must never give up. 

You can take a dream that seems impossible and make it your reality.

You can take back your spirit and your health and your life.

 

You must persevere.

You must do all it takes.

But you must never, ever give up. 

Purple Hair and a Tattoo.

Gosh, I want to be more of a bad-ass than I am.


Don't get me wrong, I'm a good deal bad-ass when it comes to motivation and drive and determination and stubbornness and passion and scrappiness.

But I want to be a bigger-bad ass.



I want to have streaks of purple in my wavy hair.

I want to have a tattoo on my ankle.

I want muscular defined arms that people might suppose I use for pushing scoundrels down stairwells when they piss me of.


Because its in there! Beneath this lady-like exterior, there is a bad-ass confined by societal walls.

Well, maybe it's time to be a tattoo-sporting, cray-cray B.

Dangit. Tough girls don't say "cray-cray B."

They say "One crazzzzzzzzzzzy BITCH."

I swear, beneath the pearls and polka dots and the cardigan sets, there is a swearing, foul-mouthed, sexy rule-breaker who wants to sass authority.

"I HATE AUTHORITY," she proclaimed, as set down her quiche.

                       I HATE AUTHORITY.











I mean, I don't want to be grungy.
Or smelly.
Or do drugs.

Or push people down stairwells. (Not really.)

I don't want to be mean.

Cuz I'm not mean-hearted.

But I'd like to be a little bit tougher of a lady.

A bad-ass lady.



With red lips and hot-rollered hair.


And a tattoo.


Maybe just a little one.

The Magic Cafe

What if there existed a cafe that was dusty and antique and Parisian and magical?

It would be an obscure tiny undiscovered cafe-- one with no regulars because it is too hard to find.

People might only stumble upon it once or twice in their lifetimes.



Because it keeps moving.

It is a traveling cafe.

It sets up shop by night or day and is gone the next.

It is a cafe of miraculous design.

And when those who are lucky enough happen to stumble upon the cafe and actually walk through its doors, their lives are never again the same.

Walking through its doors signifies something wondrous is about to occur.

When you sit at one of the enchanted tables, grand ideas suddenly emerge, you are present and enlightened. The answers to your deepest questions are suddenly revealed to you almost as if you always knew what you have just realized.

Your deepest sorrows will miraculously cease to cause you pain. The memories won't disappear, your soul's ability to process sorrow and learn from it only has only been heightened so you are now more equipped to understand how true sorrow can shape your spirit...

Perhaps most magical is the cafe's ability to connect strangers and loved ones. Your soul mate from a different lifetime who you never thought you'd stumble upon is now sitting at the table in front of you and you are mysteriously drawn to this individual in a way you've never experienced. Your eyes lock. Your soul mate walks over to you and draws the chair, sitting down next you. Your life will never be the same.

Your long-lost family member has just walked through the door and ordered an espresso. You have been reunited after years of searching.

Your childhood best friend is sitting across the cafe and after twenty minutes you both see each other and understand you were supposed to meet once more so that you could explore the world together, make up for lost time, have adventures, and swim in oceans in far distant lands.

In fact, this cafe is so breathtaking and life-changing, that it can only exist in one plane, one realm, for one set amount of time.

The cafe knows it must keep moving, must keep changing the lives of all who walk through its doors.

And if you are so lucky to stumble upon this cafe twice in your lifetime, you will only have the faintest feeling that you have been there once before.

 A warmth will fill your entire being with such mystery and happiness, that you will simply feel compelled to stop for a moment, order a cup of coffee, and wait for whatever magic might happen next.

Infected Train

His infection looked quite serious.

He pulled the leg of his jeans up to show the train-car of passengers his wound and begged us all for help. Not in a hysterical way, not in a belligerent way. In a very sad and ashamed kind of way.

And every passenger on that train stared at him. I could even hear a few disgusted gasps as he displayed the infected gash on his calf. I thought, surely, once the passengers saw this, they would act on compassion and help him. But no one moved except me. I immediately reached into my purse as everyone else disconnected and looked at their electronic devices or listened to music from their ipods. Everyone else ignored him.

He had said he was homeless, he had just come from Rush Hospital and was trying to fill a prescription that was $18 dollars and he only had $4, and as he winced in pain, I thought to myself, this man is begging for medical attention. I seriously doubted he would be using any of this money for booze or illegal drugs, I could only hope that he was being honest and as soon as he got this money he would fill the prescription for antibiotics.

He just kept saying he was sorry, he didn't want to bother any of us, he just didn't know what else to do. His eyes looked so full of sorrow and shame. And either he was a wonderful actor or his energy was so sad and desperate that I barely thought twice about helping him.

I looked into my wallet and realized I only had a $10 bill.

He was close to my age and wore a zip up hoodie, his face looked lined with worry and his eyes were small and slightly glassy. He had a non-threatening frame, carried a backpack, and as soon as he'd hobbled onto that train I'd known something was wrong. I'd kept my eyes on him and part of me wondered if this was a man who had perfected his scam or if this was a man who truly needed medical care.

I nodded at him and he came over to me and I handed him the $10 bill.

"I'm so sorry," he said to me. "I'm so sorry, thank you."

I just nodded my head at him with compassion. He sat back down. No one else moved to help him.

"I'll be getting off at the next stop," he announced to the car after several minutes. "If anyone else can help. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be bothering anyone."

But no one else helped him.

He got up and looked at me sadly before he got off the train, "I'm sorry," he told me again. His face and voice sounded pathetic, like he had no idea what else to do anymore, like he was at the end of his rope and hadn't wanted to beg but could come up with no other way.

"It's okay," I told him.

And he got off the train.

I was astonished that no one else had offered to help him. Was I just that much of a gullible sap? Was I just buying into this young man's act? Was he really not suffering and simply fantastic at putting on a show? But the wound. What about that wound? It really did look very bad. He'd said that he didn't have a medical card and the prescription was $18 dollars. But if he didn't have insurance, wouldn't antibiotics be much more expensive than that? Were generics not that expensive even without insurance? My mind swirled around as I wondered if everyone else on that train had chosen not to get involved because they didn't believe him and I was just a sucker, or if no one else had helped because they did not care.

I suppose I won't ever know.

I've lived in Chicago for almost 7 years and I've seen scores of homeless people and beggars and I've ignored most and helped some. But I hadn't recalled a situation like this--and this urge to immediately assist because I felt it was the right thing to do.

I can only hope that the man will find his way, whether he was lying or not.

Because whether it was medically or emotionally or physically or all of the above, this man had been suffering. And at least for me, I find it incredibly difficult to look into the eyes of a soul who is truly suffering, and just turn the other way.