947 lives

I sat down to write a blog about something that happened yesterday. I clicked on a different URL than I usual, and it took me to the “reader” side instead of the “writer” side of the portal. There, I was invited to join 947 people who follow this little blog. 947. That’s nearly 1,000. It’s a pretty big number.

I know that some of those “follows” are people hoping that I will “follow” them back – and they’ve never read a word. Other people may read a post when I link to it on Facebook or LinkedIn or twitter, but not “follow.”

I don’t know what I may have written that has helped someone else. How would the world change if each of us could reach 947 people and give them some love, some hope or simply make them feel as if whatever emotion they are experiencing is normal – that they will get through it.

Some of these 947 people have reached this page because I tried and failed to run a half marathon at Walt Disney World (the FIRST time) and they, too, wanted to know what happened if the balloon ladies pass you (click here to find out). That post has by far the most views.

Speaking of views, as of the writing of this little article, my posts have been viewsd 6,456 times. It’s not a big, big number, but that number is larger than the number of people who I have interacted with in real life since 2014, when I found the courage to begin writing on the internet.

I’m reminded of the first time that I ran the 10K race at the Cleveland Rite-Aid marathon weekend. As I crossed the finish line, a woman asked my name and said, “you’re the woman who lost all that weight, aren’t you?” The connection I shared with her at that moment were more special than the shiny medal I received for finishing.

Another time, I wrote about finding painted rocks at the beach, and how happy they made me, and the woman who let them in secret saw me running and became my friend.

My third grade teacher has read my words and continued to make me feel as loved and supported as she did 43 years ago.

Years ago, I had a small circle of friend online with whom I shared poetry. My profile said, “I am an artist. I paint pictures with words.”

When I logged onto this site, I was given 947 gifts in an instant.

Write on.

love,

~Be~

What is Success, Anyway?

Posted by BecomingBetty

I had the great pleasure of meeting some wonderful people on a recent trip to Colorado. One of them felt like a “new old friend” – one of those people who for no readily-apparent reason I just instantly like and can talk with easily, as if meeting with an old friend.

Like me, she’s had setbacks, including painful injuries. while admittedly, I don’t know all that much about her, but she is smart, pretty, and has accomplished a lot in her trips around the sun. She told me, quietly, that she doesn’t think she’s successful. I asked her, “what does it mean to be successful?

She told me that she’d have to think about it. It told her that I would, too.

Dictionary.com lists three definitions for the word “success.”

the favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors; the accomplishment of one’s goals.
the attainment of wealth, position, honors, or the like.
a performance or achievement that is marked by success, as by the attainment of honors.

I don’t really feel that any of those definitions defines what I look at when I attempt to define “success” as it applies to me or to those who I encounter in daily life.

If I accomplish one set of goals, I may have achieved success, but am I still “successful” if I simply stop there? Are the possession of wealth, position and honors a good measure of success, really?

Is my success as a lawyer determined by my financial gain or by the number of people whose lives I touch? Is my success as a measured by keeping my children alive to adulthood, or must they thrive on their own in an adult world?

I didn’t feel very successful as a young adult. I don’t know what my personal measure of success was at 28, but I do recall that I was nervous about meeting my biological grandparents because I was divorced, a single parent and overweight. I didn’t consider that the fact that I was employed, working hard and buying my own home may have looked like success to my grandparents.

As a 33-year-old undergraduate student, I tutored a young man in math. I was not a top math student, but my scores were higher than his, so I learned how to solve the problems and then I taught him to solve them, too. We both passed the class. That was definitely a success.

My personal framework for success is evolving. At one time, I would have deemed myself a success having received a college degree. When I attained that goal, I was proud for a moment, but I still didn’t feel successful. Now that I have a BA and JD and my own law practice, I feel successful when I win an argument and I don’t feel successful when I compare my paycheck to that of a colleague working for a big firm.

Since my conversation a month ago with my new, old friend, I have put some thought into answering the question of, “what is success?”

I’ve trained for two half-marathons. In both cases, I logged hundreds of miles in training. I did not finish my first attempt. I did finish my second attempt. Was I a failure the first time and a success the second time? If “success” is measured by completing a race, then that is the case. Although I felt momentarily defeated when I was “swept” from the course on that first attempt, I was proud of having successfully completed a training program, losing a bunch of weight, and gaining a lot of self-confidence. I overcame a lot of obstacles in order to chalk up that failure. Overall, that experience, and the fire it lit under me to finish the next time was definitely a contributing factor to my later “success.”

Speaking of that weight – I still have a sizeable amount to release. am I a success for having lost over 100 lbs and keeping most of it off, or must I reach that elusive “goal weight” to be a success in the health arena? Do my A1C, resting heart rate and blood pressure measurements contribute to success?

I’m very much a success story in some arenas. In other areas, I’m a desperate failure. I choose not to focus on those because I can only fix one or two things at a time.

One person who reads my musings may call me a “thought leader.” Another recently told me I was full of Bull***t. Guess which one I listened to (and then look back at the space between my blog posts in recent months…)

For today, I will define “success” as living a life consistent with my values. That’s a higher bar than one would think some days.

What is “success”? Do you feel successful? What will it take for you to feel like a success? Leave em a comment. Let’s have a conversation.

Embracing the Dark

Posted by BecomingBetty

My “brand,” for want of a better term, has been “comfort and joy,” but the truth is that I have been doing my best to load heavy on the “joy” part. I find joy in colors – in wild, bright, nearly-neon shades of pink, orange and green. I have teacups in every color of the rainbow. I wear eyeglasses that are splashed with many colors. I love color.

I’m currently listening to “Learning to walk in the Dark: Because Sometimes God Shows up at Night“, by Barbara Brown Taylor. The author’s soothing voice is a reminder that life isn’t always colorful. We have spent generations filling our world with light – chasing away the darkness. We’ve lost the ability to take comfort in dark things – dark places. Her voice came at me through several podcasts in a short time. On an impulse, I turned in an Audible credit and downloaded the recording. I’m so glad that I did.

I’m the first one up in the house most mornings. I flip on every light switch I pass, filling the house with the artificial sunlight emitted from all of those high-efficiency LED light bulbs. The author asked questions, and I pondered, “When was the last time that I truly sat in the dark? When did I last watch the night sky and watch for the stars to appear?”

It seems that August and September each lasted about 10 minutes. Here I sit, already part way through the month of October. My beautiful summer garden has begun to turn brown around the edges. The petunias are bearing their last blooms; the herbs are going to seed. Winter is Coming (sorry). With Winter comes long nights. With my windowless office, it is far too easy to arrive at work in the dark and leave in the dark. I must be intentional, some days, to glimpse the sunlight at all. The vibrant orange roses I purchased a week and a half ago have finally turned brown. I rinsed the apple-green vase and stored it away.

Emotions can be dark, too. We can confront dark emotions without being consumed by them. I’m amazed by the videos of dangerous creatures – night creatures – like wolves and bears and foxes that make their way into backyards and play in the pool or on the trampoline. I find delight in watching their apparent joy. Had those homeowners been frightened by the beasts and turned on the security light, flooding the yard with artificial sun, the animals may have scurried away into the forest. Instead, they sat back and allowed something magical to happen, and those videos have brought happiness to thousands, like me, who will never experience the sight.

In the wake of my mother’s death last year, I pursued joy like a drug. I purchased yarn in bright colors, hoarded away in quantities it will take many months to deplete. I asked for (and received – thank you, darling) a room painted a yellow (called “joyful,” no less) in which I could sit and do happy things while looking out the window at happy colors. Honestly, the room hasn’t received much use.

No, I’m not currently depressed. I’m just coming down off of an artificial high. I’ve never used recreational drugs, but I’m told that some so completely deplete serotin – the happiness hormone – that it’s difficult to feel happy after coming down from the high. Those same substances, administered by a professional, can be used to combat serious issues like PTSD. Like those drugs, “Joy,” I think, is best in small doses. It’s much more special that way. Seeking out joy is hard work. An item is only novel a time or two, then unless it is connected to a special memory, it begins to lose its magic. It becomes another pretty thing to sit on a shelf and dust.

Instead of running from garden to lake seeking perfect sunrises and sunsets (filled with fuschia and orange), I’m going to take a look around at all of the perfect,ordinary, taken-for-granted blessings. There is beauty in ritual – in the mundane.

I’m not swearing off of joy – I’m just trying to find a rhythm – to get back to appreciating the ordinary. To enjoy comfort while at the same time allowing darkness – sadness, melancholy and longing – to creep in where I can watch them from a safe distance.

My dear aunt and uncle in Arkansas recently sent me a gift – a video of my mother and her siblings in 2009. One sister had already taken up residence in heaven – but the rest of them sat and told stories about growing up – about Christmas and toys and the poor family who stole milk from the cows because their children were hungry.

That DVD sat on the table in the foyer for more than a week. I was afraid of it. I don’t know if I was afraid of seeing my mother’s face and hearing her voice. I don’t know if I was afraid that she might say something about me and my failures as a daughter. I can’t truly describe the nature of my fear. I just know that I felt it.

After moving the disc from one room to another, I finally popped it into the computer, sat back with a pot of tea, and watched it end to end. I allowed the tears to come. I allowed the grief to come into the yard and bounce on the trampoline. I allowed myself to laugh at the funny parts, too.

Like the wild animals playing on the swingset, though, dark emotion is a wild creature that for those of us who have found our way back from depression must be respected for the wild thing that it is. Like the woman filming the black bears, I can watch sadness from the safety of the kitchen window, but it would be foolish to invite it into the house and give it a place at the table.

I would never go out into the yard if a bear was there, but I might brave the night to see how close I could get to a fox or a raccoon. I would face fear of the dark for the potential experience of seeing something special up close.

If you never go out into the dark, how will you ever see the stars?

This Magic Moment

Posted by BecomingBetty

One in a rare while, something completely magical happens. This weekend contained one of those moments. My husband I bought an old beat-up camper a few years ago. We’ve enjoyed many adventures over the past several summers as we have towed the camper from site to site and state to state. Our youngest son is 18 now, and assures us that he can be trusted at home to tend the dogs and make sure the house doesn’t burn down.

This weekend my husband and I took the rig to a state park campground close to home. Unlike the park we have favored over the past two summers, this park has little in the way of amenities. Our campsite had no power, water or sewer hookups. There is no swimming pool or fancy tile and marble bathhouse. There is, however, an abundance of forest, trees and a beautiful lake for kayaking or canoeing (an adventure we have yet to begin).

We arrived Friday afternoon. Our site was level, but “boring.” Two porta potties and a dumpster were across the street instead of the beautiful river across from our “usual” favorite spot away from home. We set up the trailer and pulled out the chairs, rug and table for our patio.

While I was in the rear of the camper, I saw a tiny weathered path leading into the trees, and I followed it. Inside the cluster of evergreens was a clearing. The opening was a domed sanctuary like no other, and wherever I looked inside the evergreen aviary, there were birds. There were bright yellow goldfinches and black and white woodpeckers. There were red feathers and blue feathers. The sun shone in bright beams through the timbers, and as I moved through the clearing, seemingly dozens of little birds flitted about around me, filling the air with colors. It was a scene straight out of a Disney movie. I took a seat on a fallen log and nearly started singing songs from Cinderella.

Some time later, I reluctantly returned to the campsite, certain that I would never experience anything like this again in my lifetime. I went for a run/hike later that evening with more magical encounters (for another blog, perhaps) and slept soundly.

The next morning I awoke early and set off for a pre-breakfast walk in the early morning quiet. Dots of brilliant yellow dotted the ground outside of the camper. An entire flock of goldfinches were enjoying the morning light alongside me. As I moved along the road, so did they, lighting on the ground a few feet away and then flying ahead again.

I tried to photograph my walking companions, but the images were grainy and blurred. The image exists only in my memory. I moved from one row of campsites to another and the birds stayed behind. I found trees with dozens of holes drilled by an industrious woodpecker. I climbed a staircase formed by the roots of a benevolent tree. I wandered through an expanse of forest that I immediately deemed “the tree graveyard,” as dozens of fallen trees littered the forest floor while health trees reached up all around.

I frequently run through the woods. Why, then, I asked myself, do I not experience this magic on a regular basis? The answer was at my fingertips – or perhaps my earlobes. I was walking for the sole purpose of being in nature. I wasn’t looking at my pace on my watch. I wasn’t listening to a podcast or a running coach through wireless earbuds. I was exploring a new landscape. New trails and terrain required my constant attention to avoid a nasty fall.

How often are we so absorbed in the artificial world that our technology creates around us that we fail to see the flock of birds, or to hear the crickets at nightfall? Do I miss seeing the doe and her two babies crashing through the woods just ahead of me because I am concentrating on my stride and cadence?

I pay attention to these statistics because I want to be faster. I don’t want to finish dead last in my next race – but at what cost does the potential improvement come? What would happen if most days I simply ran for the joy of running instead of trying to beat my personal record around the trail loop?

When we fill our ears with music and look at the device on our wrist that vibrates every 30 seconds to remind us to MOVE FASTER, what magic do we miss? I’ve reserved the same campsite for next weekend. Do you think the birds will remember me?

My Life as a Plant

Posted by BecomingBetty

I just returned from a weekend camping in a place with absolutely no internet connectivity. My cell phone did not work. Zero bars. Nada. No Facebook. No weather. No checking my calendar or sharing pics on Instagram. The only purposes my handy dandy pocket computer served were alarm clock, music player and e-reader.

Our 18-year-old son is old enough, now, to spend a weekend without Mom and Dad here to manage him. He wasn’t alone, though. It was closing weekend of the musical theater show he has been rehearsing for all summer long. He’s a busy guy.

I had intended to ask my son to water my plants while I was gone, but I forgot, and by the time I arrived home, a few were just beginning to droop. I don’t generally keep indoor plants because I have a tendency to kill them, but for a few brief months every year, my back deck becomes a tropical paradise filled with a riot of colors. I “visit” the plants nearly every day. I pinch this one back here to encourage more blooms and I move that one a little to the left so that it gets more sunlight. Sometimes, though, I get busy and I forget a day of watering. Earlier this summer, a combination of a badly-planned container and failure of a drip-watering system led to a “dead” planter. I had my husband drill a bunch of holes in the bottom of an old aluminum tea kettle that was my mother’s, and I filled it with vines and flowers. It was lovely.

I went out to the deck one night to commune with my flowering friends and found the kettle plants wilted and dead-looking. The soil was crispy. The leaves were crinkly. The situation looked pretty hopeless. I cried a little. I had “built” that container as a tribute to Mom, who I lost in November, and in that moment, my irrational mind felt that I had let her down (again).

My husband said, “just throw the plants out and buy new ones.” It was tempting. Instead, though, I soaked the container thoroughly. I used my garden shears to cut back the completely brown parts and I moved the kettle from the hook where it hung “crooked,” as if pouring a cup of tea to a shelf where it could sit flat (and was much easier to water).

I began watching the kettle planter each day. On Day 2, it looked a little better. The leaves that had still been green, but were wrinkled instead of full and lush had filled back out. The extremities on the vines though, continued to wilt and grow brown. I pulled out the shears once again and cut back a little more.

By Day 3, the “core” of the planter was beginning to look healthy. There were no flowers anywhere, but the greenery was looking healthier.

By Day 7, new runners were beginning to appear from the vining plants. By Day 10, a few buds had appeared on the the plant with the tiny white flowers.

Now, two full weeks after the disaster, three of the four plants have made a brilliant recovery. They almost look as if they had never been nearly killed. I say “almost,” because if you look closely, you can see the scarring on some leaves. There are some brown parts, too – but if you view the kettle from a distance, you would never know that it was nearly a lost cause. The fourth plant, with it’s delicate leaves and tiny fuschia blossoms, though, isn’t faring as well as its neighbors. Perhaps it is the diminutive size of the leaves. Perhaps this plant wouldn’t have thrived in the same container as the other three even without my unintentionally-caused drought. It’s surviving, but it isn’t thriving.

While running on a narrow trail through the forest this weekend (without music), I began thinking about the plants in Mom’s kettle. When you neglect a plant, or when it goes through a crisis, it begins to shut down. It conserves precious resources for its core. It keeps its center alive for as long as possible. Humans do this, too.

It was just about a year ago when Mom told me that her cancer was “alive” again, and that she would need radiation treatments to knock it back down. In the weeks leading up to that day, I had celebrated my 50th birthday. I was joyful. I was celebrating life. If I were a plant, I would have been “blooming all over the place.”

As the illness progressed, it took her mind. My own soul began to wilt a little. My extremities began to wither – I stopped seeking out people and conversations. A leaf began to die here and there. She became sicker and died. People soon stopped sending cards and notes. The flowers people sent died. The houseplants that people sent to the funeral died, too. I suppose the fact that I hadn’t watered them had something to do with it. We entered the longest winter ever, and I had my own “dark night of the soul.”

With Spring came hope. I waited impatiently for the last chance of frost to pass so that I could plant new life in the containers that still held the wilted remains of last year’s flower garden. The trails called me, too. I began running again on paths through woods and meadows. I began smiling more. As the pots and kettles and gutters filled with living, blooming things began to fill my life with color, my mood lifted. I began reaching out. I even invited people long gone from my life for coffee and conversation. I, too, began to bloom again.

I recognize my plant-like nature. When there is a “trauma” in my environment, the “extremities” are the first to go. I stop doing the extra things that bring me into contact with others. I stop “vining” – reaching out for new places to connect and grow. I stop blooming – whether my blossoms are written words or photographs of pretty teacups.

My grief is not over. Most days I am happy, but once in a while I will forget for a moment that Mom is dead. I reach for the phone to call her, or spot something I would love to send her. Those moments are no longer enough to ruin me for the day.

By late Winter, if I were a plant, I would have looked pretty sad. I imagine I was there, with my long, flowing fronds, once lush and green, now hanging sad and brown. Someone would come along and offer a word or encouragement and my “core” plant would lap it up. At work, I would have an opportunity to help someone, and they showed their appreciation through kind words or referrals that brought me more and more to life. Each act of kindness – each “touch,” whether physical or through the magic of the internet – was like a drop of rain to my parched soul.

Running through the Mohican State Forest this weekend, I was in awe of the resilience of plants – especially the trees. In some spots, I was forced to climb tree roots as if they were a staircase. In other places, I saw trees that had been blown over completely and started to grow again in a new direction. Trees don’t give up and stop growing because there is a storm.

I don’t picture myself as a tree. I’m far too fickle. I’m more like a vining plant with long colorful fronds that blooms brightly once in a while. As I heal, my fronds are filling out and buds forming. as I hit “publish,” I will have put out my first blossom in a long while.

So, today I will be like a plant. I will bloom where I’m planted while sending out vines, seeking new places to experience and erupting in an occasional flower that, when wilted, sends seeds out to land in someone else’s waiting, fertile soil of their imagination.

Keep it Simple, Stupid

Posted by BecomingBetty

I haven’t been posting very often recently. It’s not that I haven’t had anything on my mind – it’s that I tend to overthink things. I’ve started and scrapped numerous posts on complex, heavy issues. The truth is, I have defensible positions on most of the pressing political issues. I have my moral and ethical stance, and I can compare/contrast it with my position as it relates to the law. The truth is, though, that no matter what I say, it’s going to hurt someone’s feelings or alienate someone, and that’s the last thing that I want. I’ve decided that those conversations are best left to face-to-face discussions.

I had the joy of rediscovering an old unfinished piece of writing the other day. It was a piece where I recalled the simple joy of growing up in a large family with dozens of cousins and being able to run and play on acres of woods and meadows with creeks, a lake, and a bounty of imagination. Things were simple then. The rules were simple – be nice, don’t lie, and take care of each other.

At home, there were lots of neighbors with children. The rules were equally simple – if you’re going to leave the neighborhood, tell someone where you’re going and take someone with you. Start walking home when the street lights come on, and be home before it’s fully dark.

Recreation was equally simple. Mom would pack a picnic and we would drive to a park where we would play in a river or creek, hike trails and look for interesting rocks. Sometimes we would stop for ice cream on the way home.

Simple applied to personal care as well. Mom’s makeup kit consisted of a bar of soap, a bottle of CoverGirl Clean Makeup (beige), and a pink lipstick she wore on Sundays.

Losing a lot of weight is a long process. I have a lot of experience. I’ve lost over 100 pounds three times in thirty years. I’m really good at losing weight, but I have always stopped short of the goal. This time is different. It has to be. I’m 50 years old and I intend to make it to 100. I don’t want a damaged, worn out body to be home base for the next 50 years.

The reason this time of change is different is because the changes are permanent and the rules are simple. Simple is best.

Mental health comes first. I take time off each week to spend a day doing something creative, something fun, or something I’ve always wanted to try. Each morning begins with time to myself to read, meditate or write. A mental health break can be 30 minutes of writing in a journal or 7 minutes of a sun salutation. Keep it simple.
My goals are completely within my control. I can’t control the rate at which my body sheds pounds or inches, but I can control my approach. My goals:

Exercise 4 times per week.
No sugar, no flour, no snacks. I have a protocol that includes meal times and what each meal should look like. It’s dirt simple.
Weigh, measure and log the food.
Weigh, measure and log body weight and measurements.
Drink water. Lots of it.

I stopped eating gluten-containing foods six years ago when I figured out that they were making me sick. Each time I am accidentally exposed to gluten, my resolve to never intentionally eat it again is strengthened. Sugar, too, is toxic for me. I can easily down a bag of jelly beans by myself. I get twitchy walking through the candy aisle. I can’t have “just a little.” For me, sugar is as toxic as gluten is, yet I was still consuming it. It’s true that consuming sugar doesn’t give me the same violent (and disgusting) symptoms that gluten does, yet, the effect of consuming sugar lead me to overeat everything else.

In the past, I would start off with a simple approach. As I successfully lost pounds and inches, I would add “rules.” After a time, I would break a rule “just once.” Having broken the rule, I would take a whole day (week, month) as a reward or simply throw in the towel.

The more complexity you add to a plan, the more likely you are to fail. Keep it simple.

I’ve had to change my relationship with food. Food is fuel. Food is not entertainment. I managed to bypass my favorite gluten-free bakery on Mother’s Day. I had a momentary urge that simply went away. I wasn’t as successful with the popcorn at the movie theater. Although I indulged, my portion was far smaller than in the past. I ate a kernel at a time instead of shoving a handful into my mouth all at once.

Right now the scale is stuck, but the tape measure and my clothing tell the true story. All I have to do is keep it simple, trust the process and the magic will happen on its own schedule.

What’s your favorite simple strategy wen it comes to your health?

Who are You Going to Listen To?

Posted by BecomingBetty

Here’s a quick recap for those of you who don’t really know me or have lost touch. I got hurt badly in a fall just before law school. Already significantly overweight before law school, the injury, horrible diet (can you say free pizza?) and hours and hours of studying coupled with a completely sedentary lifestyle added up to a middle-aged woman who was not just morbidly obese – I was “super obese.”

Some years later, through changes in diet, DDP Yoga (check it out – it’s amazing) and putting on a pair of running shoes for the first time in my life, I lost over 100 pounds.

My Facebook feed was full of photos of the meals I prepared and notifications from Nike Running Club that I was going for a run. When people “liked” my post, the app would cheer. It was really motivating! I attempted a half marathon in 2015 and was “swept” at mile 8 (I couldn’t maintain the minimum pace). I didn’t give up. I was training for a “rematch” with the same half marathon course when I read a Facebook post written by a law school classmate who I considered a close friend.

I don’t remember the exact words, but the gist of the post was that people who aren’t serious athletes shouldn’t post about their workouts – that we just are attention seekers and our “friends” don’t really care about our workouts. Especially guilty were those of us who enter a competition and fail to complete it. I was devastated. He didn’t write my name, but I was all of those things. I did manage to finish the 2016 half marathon attempt (just barely), but afterward, I lost my mojo. I would run a few times a month, but I never got back into a predictable schedule.

I stopped posting, so I lost the “cheers.” I stopped running, so I lost the endorphins that exercise releases. I started eating potato chips again. Life took some really tough turns, and instead of going for a run to ease the anxiety, I turned back to food. Over time, I packed on nearly 50 pounds of weight.

As a self-employed person, my health insurance premiums became really expensive. I switched from traditional health insurance to a health share plan, and in order to be approved, I had to agree to work with a health coach. He doesn’t tell me what to do. He helps me to set goals, and when we check in every week or so, he asks me how I did. With his help, I’ve dropped 30 pounds.

I’ve missed running. I’m very slow, so running any distance requires a significant time commitment for me. My “homework” from my coach a couple of months ago was to sign up for a race. I signed up for the Cleveland Rite-Aid Marathon Weekend 5K / 10K Challenge which was held this weekend (May 19-20, 2018). The “overachiever” in me couldn’t just sign up for the 5K. I had earned 3 medals in 2016 for completing a challenge, so registered for both the 5K and 10K and I set out to repeat that feat.

Here in Ohio, the weather has been miserable. To top it off, my left foot has decided to grow some benign, but uncomfortable “lumps.” These two factors combined to make a very serviceable excuse to skip training runs. I skipped lots of them. Basically, I didn’t train – I just ran a couple of times when the weather was nice.

I checked the weather forecast mid-week. Saturday and Sunday were supposed to be stormy. I ran the 5K / 10K in 2016 when Cleveland had sleet, hail and thundersnow (yes, that’s a real thing) in mid-May. I nearly didn’t pick up my race packet.

By Friday morning, the forecast had improved. The forecast showed clear windows for both races. I posted about not being ready and about my food hurting, and a running friend (an ultramarathoner, no less) encouraged me to join the ranks of the injured and undertrained and do it anyway – so I did.

Saturday was the 5K. I did really well. I ran the fastest 5K I’ve run since I started running again. I was stoked. Sunday, I arrived at the start and it started raining. I very nearly turned back, got on the train and made my way back to my car. The voice of my “friend” was back in my head. I was going to finish near the very back of the pack. I hadn’t made it to anywhere near 6 miles in my training runs, and to be honest, other than yesterday’s 5K, I had only run once or twice in the past month.

I was just about to allow my “friend’s” imaginary voice that was telling me that I did not belong on the course to persuade me to return to the car when another law school classmate saw me and talked to me for quite some time. He was running his first race. That brief conversation gave me a minute to chase the other classmate out of my head.

I was sore from the 5K. I held back the first half of the race because I knew that I was under-trained and I was virtually certain to run out of steam. I was fine until about mile 4.5 when we had to climb a really steep hill. I was really tired. I wasn’t in pain, but it was hard to make my feet go faster than a slow walk. My pace had dropped, and that guy’s voice in my head was working on me again – “You didn’t train for this. Nobody cares about your posts. Nobody cares about your run. You’re a fake!”

I was discouraged. I felt like crying when a voice cried, “Betty!” Yet another law school classmate stopped in the middle of her own race to grab me and wrap me in a hug. Take that, “mean guy.” People do care.

The last mile and a half was slow, but I didn’t care. I was soaked to the skin (the rain never did completely stop) and out of energy, but I had a grin on my face that nobody could erase. I crossed the bridge over the Cuyahoga River that was just before the finisher’s chute. I collected my medal. I found my way to the tent where I received another medal for the completing two races in one weekend, and ran into yet another law school classmate. She cared, too.

This is a long, long story. The moral of the story is be careful who you allow as a “tenant” in your head. Nearly every time I post on social media about a run or a race, I receive a whole bunch of “likes,” which I translate as a positive thing. Maybe it *is* attention seeking, but if that little reward keeps me on the track or trail, I think it’s worth it. Anyone who is not interested has the power to block, unfollow or simply “mute” me on social media.

I allowed one post by someone who was probably going through his own issues YEARS ago to be an excuse not to do things that are good for me. Even sadder, that same guy wrote a post a couple of months ago apologizing to his social media friends for basically being a jerk a couple of years ago. Months later, I was still allowing his years-old post to be my excuse for not trying.

I ran more than 9.3 miles this weekend, most of them in a cold, miserable rain. I didn’t use an app that “cheered” me, but I received live, in person love from people I haven’t seen in person in years. I collected 3 medals to hang from the cane that I used to need to hobble around my law school. Most importantly, I’ve issued an eviction notice to the imaginary “friend” in my head because I don’t want to renew his lease. It’s time for him to go.

The announcer at the race said that 15,000 people were registered for today’s events. The fact that I found three people I knew, some at just the right moment to keep me from “throwing in the towel,” and one to share my joy in having finished went beyond coincidence. I believe in miracles, friendship and a bit ‘o luck. Today I experienced all three.

To all of the people who have told me that I am an inspiration and the reason they started doing something hard – whether it was going back to school or exercising – even running: I’m back. Being told that you’re an inspiration can be uncomfortable. I wonder why people say that sometimes because I am so imperfect. Perhaps it is that very imperfection that inspires. I get back up time and time again. It’s okay to stumble. It’s okay to lose your way from time to time. Finding your way back to the path is what matters. Thank you for believing in me when I stopped believing in myself.

To the friend who accidentally found his way into my head: I didn’t write this to call you out. It looks like your life today is going in a fantastic direction. I miss you and I’m proud of you….I just don’t want you in my head anymore. Okay?

The moral of the story is: when you have to choose between listening to people who love you and want you to succeed and people who are going through a hard time and complaining about something they don’t like on social media, choose wisely!

Peace out, I’m going to go hang up my medals!

~Be~

All the pretty string

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’m pretty much an introvert. Don’t get me wrong – I love people. I love to hang out with people [once I get there] and I love to talk with people and to get to know people. I love to get up in front of a crowd and talk. I love to go where people are and smile at them for no reason at all. Sometimes they think they know me and stop to chat. Despite my love of people, though, I must say that actually interacting with people exhausts me. After a day in court or a day consulting with existing or potential clients, I need some alone time to recover.

That’s where all the pretty string comes into the picture. I didn’t have many friends when I was a little girl. Truthfully, I’ve never learned the skill of cultivating friendships. While my brother roamed the neighborhood playing with the other little boys, I sat in the house and got underfoot.

I think I was about 8 years old when my mother handed me a ball of yarn (hot pink!) and a crochet hook. She taught me to make a slip knot, and then she wrapped the yarn around my left pinky and through my fingers and then held my little hands in hers and guided me through the first stitches. Once I had the hang of “chaining,” she let go. She told me to keep going until I got to the end of the ball of scratchy pink acrylic yarn.

Periodically the yarn would tangle between my fingers, or I would let go to scratch my nose or go to the bathroom, and I would take my chain back to Mom and ask her to wrap the yarn around my fingers again. She did, and each time she would admire my ever-growing chain.

Honestly, I don’t remember how long it took me to finish that long, long chain, but I think it was long enough to allow her to get some housework done – or perhaps some time alone for a cup of tea.

As the summer progressed, we tore that ball of yarn apart time and time again. She taught me single crochet, then double crochet and half-double crochet. Before the summer was over, I had turned that same ball of hot pink fiber into a ruffled rhumba-style ball gown for my Barbie doll. She looked fabulous.

Like many other hobbies, crochet has come and gone and come again in my life. It was something that I had in common with Mom. Mom loved people too, but they wore her out, and so when I went for a visit, I would frequently take my latest work in progress along. She would work on her doily or her baby sweater, and I would work on my hat, scarf or shawl. When we were stitching, we could talk, or we could be silent – bonding over our mutual love of turning thread to treasures.

I recently purchased A Stash of One’s Own: Knitters on Loving, Loiving with, and Letting to of Yarn, by Clara Parkes. It is a book full of essays by other people who love yarn. It’s not a long book, and I am enjoying it so much that I’ve been “rationing” it – reading just one essay at a time, then surfing Ravelry for patterns designed by the writers.

This morning I read an essay by Franklin Habit and his relationship with needlework and his mother. His mother’s “stash” became an embodiment of her for him, and he spoke of the emotions that surfaced after her death when it came time to process her death – and her stash.

As a child, his mother’s “pretty string” was forbidden. Later in life, their mutual love of “pretty string” brought them together in new ways. It’s a beautiful essay, and well worth a read.

Late last year, in Mom’s final illness, she asked me to bring yarn and a hook to the nursing home where she lay all day. Her occupational therapist encouraged the idea, and I scoured my stash for yarn that was brightly colored and very soft. I grabbed an assortment of crochet hooks from my collection and delivered the package as proudly as a little girl clutching a handful of dandelions from the lawn on Mother’s Day.

Although Mom admired the yarn, it was clear that crocheting together was something we would not be able to do any more. I haven’t finished a crochet project since. The scarf I worked on at the nursing home sits unfinished in my bedroom. Instead, I did something that Mom never really tried. I learned to knit.

My love of pretty string leads to me knitting in public when I am waiting for an appointment or enjoying the sunshine in the park. The yarn attracts people. They want to watch. They want to touch. They want someone to teach them to use the pretty string.

My home is full of pretty balls of string. To be perfectly honest, wrapping yarn around a pair of knitting needles and watching it turn into solid fabric or lace feels like alchemy or magic. I can lose myself in knitting – and frequently do, surrounded by balls of pretty string, losing myself in memories, or making new ones.

Zen and the Art of Knitting

Posted by BecomingBetty

I took a class on world religions when I was in my 30s. I was raised in a evangelical fundamentalist Christian household and community, and the class was my first real exposure to ideas that were not based on the Bible. I was intrigued by both the similarities between religions and the differences.

While most of the religions focused on one or more deities who needed to be pleased or appeased, Buddhism stood apart. Although Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, plays an important role in Buddhism, Siddhartha was an earthly prince. He was a human who lived and died.

One of the concepts of Buddhism that I found my mind returning to again and again is the concept of impermanence and non-attachment. I will readily admit that I’m not good at non-attachment.

Buddhist monks may spend days or weeks making intricate sand paintings called mandalas. When the design is completed, rather than affixing it to a board and framing it for all to admire, they pray over it and sweep it away. It is no more. The fact that “mandala art” is become part of rock painting and decorating is antithetical to the very concept of the mandala. Recently I encountered “mandala yarn” used to crochet elaborate wall hangings to be cherished for generations. I considered making one.

I began crocheting when I was a little girl. Mom handed me a crochet hook and a ball of yarn to keep me busy. I was soon crocheting elaborate doll clothes and simple shawls. Although there have been periods in my life when I didn’t crochet for months or even several years at a time, crocheting, and more recently knitting, have been a big part of my life for several years. Learning to knit, for me, has been more than a lesson in arts and crafts. It has been a lesson in embracing imperfection, a lesson in patience, and most recently in “letting go.”

For years, I’ve tried meditating to combat anxiety. I’ve used mantras and scriptures, apps and music to facilitate that state of near-trance when I enter a state of flow – where my mind stops chattering long enough for God to talk. For me, nothing has been more thought-clearing than the simple act of creating with yarn. There’s something almost magical about turning a single piece of string into a piece of fabric. Whether it’s a dish cloth or a fancy garment, the simple rhythm established by wooden needles passing one over the other creates a calm that I have yet to experience through any fancy application of technology. The creation of a garment or accessory is a bonus.

Yesterday I found myself part way through a knitting project. I have a tendency to buy yarn that appeals to me and then try to find the right project for it rather than choosing a project and then choosing the fiber. Sometimes I pick the wrong project. Yesterday I found myself looking at a piece of knitting that I started a couple of months ago and put aside because it just wasn’t working.. I’ve tried several times to love it and to finish it, but I couldn’t’ get to that place where my needles fly on their own without thinking. Every stitch was a struggle. It was one of those projects where the design was just wrong for the fiber.

I really wanted to love it, because I had at least 15 hours invested. The yarn was hand-dyed, purchased at a trunk show and cost a pretty penny, too. I looked at the work in progress, spent another hour or so knitting another couple of inches and finally accepted that I was never, ever going to love what I was making enough to finish it. I had a hard choice to make: I could stuff it into a bag and try to forget about the expense – both monetary and time that lived in that little bag…. or I could “frog it.”

I don’t know where the term “frogging” came from. Simply put, it means unraveling the fabric and recapturing the yarn or string. What had taken so many hours to create took only a few minutes to unmake.

I thought that I would feel a twinge of remorse at watching all of my work-time disappear, but I didn’t. At one point, I was left with a huge tangled mess when the stitches didn’t unwind evenly. I picked through the mass and pulled the knots apart one by one. After a long while, I was left with three balls of yarn that looked just like they did before I began the knitting with them in the first place.

I looked through my electronic gallery of patterns and one seemed to cry out, “make me with that beautiful yarn,” so I listened. My needles flew. I found the rhythm, and the world dropped away.

From time to time, I would look around the room from my knitting chair, and I spied possessions that no longer serve me. Some were broken or outdated. Others tied me to a place in the past. Like the “frogged” project, they no longer felt right. I took the broken things to the trash and the things that might be useful to someone else to the “donation” box. The ties to those objects unraveled much like the knitting. I encountered “knots” as I removed certain objects that had belonged to a beloved family member, but that I never loved for the sake of the object.

As humans, we long for continuity. We become attached to people, places and things. The concept of detaching from our possessions, relationships and even our ideas is painful. We hold onto things (ideas, belief, possession, and people) that harm us because we are afraid to trust our instincts – afraid to admit that what we are doing, keeping, and believing isn’t working.

No earthly thing is forever. so long as we live, we will be forced to say “goodbye” to people, places and things over and over. The more we are tangled up in the past, the harder it is to move into the future – to live the life where the design and the material work together.

Sometimes “frogging” means admitting that I hired someone that was wrong for the position I needed to fill. Sometimes it means realizing that I’m not the best person to handle a project because my skills just don’t match the needs of the client. Whatever you’re dumping bucket after bucket of your energy into, make sure that your going to have a result in the end that you can be proud of – or at the very least, one that won’t make you cringe every time you think of all of the time and expense that you put into it.

I wouldn’t be a very good Buddhist monk. Although I give away a lot of my finished projects, I admit that I become attached to some – those I keep. Others I donate. Some I give to people who I love. Others end up in the “frog pond” and are turned back into a ball of yarn waiting for just the right project to come along. There’s no shame in that.

It’s a Small, Small World.

Posted by BecomingBetty

My husband and I took our 17-year-old son to Walt Disney World at Christmas time this year. We toured Animal Kingdom and Disney’s Hollywood Studios together the first day. My husband decided to enjoy some relaxation while our son and I went to the Magic Kingdom and Epcot Center the second day. My son’s name is Matt. We rode several rides and watched several attractions together. I wanted to ride “It’s a Small World” – and he didn’t. We waited together through about half of the 45 minute queue, and when he made it abundantly clear that he would rather be eating lint, I allowed him to exit the wait when we came upon a gate that would allow him to escape.

I waited another 30 minutes alone, surrounded by people, and watched their interactions. The park was terribly crowded. It was still early in the day, so children weren’t having full on meltdowns yet, but it was lunchtime, and there were plenty of hungry little people. I started to feel a little sorry for myself, waiting all alone, and then I realized that I don’t need to make my son miserable to have a fabulous time.

I came to love that ride because my mother loved it. I came to love it more this year, riding alone, because it brought a plethora of beautiful colors and a whirlwind of motion into what had become a dark night of the soul- my journey of grief after Mom’s death in November.

I sat next to someone else’s child. He saw tears streaming down my face and said, “don’t cry.” I smiled and laughed through my tears and said back, “they’re happy tears.” I’m not sure that they were until that moment, but at the moment I made the claim of happiness, I was determined to be in love with that moment – and I was.

Winter in Ohio can be a hard time to create happiness – at least for me. The ground is covered with dirty snow or thick ice. The trees are barren. The birds are somewhere warm for the winter. It’s dark by the time I leave my windowless office to cook dinner, and the dining table looks out over the deck that is covered in dead leaves instead of containers overflowing with flowers in a hundred different hues.

My world got a lot smaller when Mom died. I lost the person I phoned when I needed to talk about what was bothering me. I lost my frequent destination for my Tuesday “day off.” My world got “small.” I wrote about losing her daily for a short while, until someone I don’t even know in “real life” said something that I decided made me feel like reading my words was a burden to other people. I stopped writing, and my world became still smaller.

I came to the realization a little over a week ago that my world had become too small – too dark. I set out to change it. A friend shared social media invitations to a class teaching African dance. I signed up, even though I knew that when I arrived, I wouldn’t know a single soul. I did something so far outside of my comfort zone – dancing – in public – in stretchy fabrics. I didn’t hide when, later in the evening, my friend showed up and started filming and sharing “live.” Just by being there, my world got a little bigger.

The following weekend, instead of sitting inside the house and doing the same old thing, I got my husband into the car and drove to the “Great Big Home and Garden Show.” We don’t have any home improvement projects on the agenda for this year, but I wanted to see the gardens. They didn’t disappoint. There were tulips and daffodils and hyacinths – a riot of color. There were trees in bud, and although I was in a giant building, I could almost feel myself outside beside a running brook in one of my favorite parks. Almost. I felt my world expand a little more.

When I moved to my present home nearly two decades ago, I never built a new network of close friends. While I don’t mean to minimize the importance of the male friends and mentors in my life, I’ve reached an age where I’m looking to build my connection with other women.

I don’t go out and “do” things with women. Now that I have become a “woman of a particular age,” – now that I am the involuntary matriarch – I see clearly how important that network of strong, wise women is to have. Only by reaching out and by sharing our joy and sorrow can we truly live a full life.

This is the “year of yes,” to quote Shonda Rimes. This is the year that I will grow my world by doing things that I don’t usually do – by saying yes to new experiences and learning new things. It is a small, small world – but it doesn’t have to be.