What if I chose out of love ...

Instead of anxiety, or fear, or hatred.

I’m running outside in the spring for the first time in a while.

The inside of my thighs are rubbing together and chafing a little bit, but I think it’ll be OK because I heard about BodyGlide and it really does work.

My shirt is riding up and my shorts are twisted. Straighten them out. Pull it down.

Focus on the run.

A new song starts pulsating in my ears.

The air is cool but comfortable on my arms. The sun is high in the pristine sky and the clouds are wispy and glittering white. It’s finally spring. I can run!

I feel my arms pumping at my sides. I smile at a neighbor outside, bent over his garden. Little brown worms are poking out of the earthy soil; tiny green sprouts become visible where all winter the ground has been covered with ever-more dirty snow, mottled with brown and gray dirt, tire tracks, and icy patches from uneven melting.

I’m breathing faster and harder. My heart is pumping quickly, bringing oxygenated blood from my lungs to the farthest blood vessels of my body. My toes and my fingers are in motion. My ponytail swings in the breeze.

I’m getting closer to the Lake. I always stop there for a minute, catch my breath, stare out at the water and remember how small I am and how big the world is, and how little my worries often matter in the ripples of the fresh water.

Bde Unma. The waters dip and flow into the chain of lakes. Bde Maka Ska. Wita Topa.

When I make it to the edge of the lake, I know I’ll see the ducks bounding in and out of the cold spring water, and sometimes the mother ducks are herding baby ducklings along the lakeshore. On an auspicious day, a majestic blue heron will be perched on a stump next to the walking path. And fathers and sons and uncles and friends dangle their fishing poles off the dock. And salty men and women paddle in hard-sided kayaks, with waterproof hats and nylon jackets.

At the Lake, I’m in the world. I’m one of Her creations, breathing, respirating, living.

But I have not yet reached the lake. I’m not there yet. I smile at the gardener, and I round the corner, and my legs get heavy. The lactic acid builds up, and my breath doesn’t seem adequate to fire my straining muscles. I look across the street at a woman in a pink sports bra cruising past me while pushing a double jogging stroller; followed by a cyclist whipping around the lake in a blur of neon spandex.

I leave the world. I’m back in my head, and I’m screaming at my body:

“LEGS! LEGS!! KEEP RUNNING!”

“Don’t you see that woman over there? She can do it; why can’t you? She just had a baby! Move. Faster.”

“It doesn’t hurt that bad. You should be working out harder. You should be able to do this. Remember high school track? (That was 20 years and two babies ago, but so what? Faster!)”

“Maybe it was all that half and half I unceremoniously dumped into my coffee. The night I went to bed instead of doing a workout. The mornings I slept in and read the news and sat in my chair. I should be waking up earlier.”

“What are you doing? You’re slowing down? You’re stopping!”

“DON’T STOP. We have to run. You don’t deserve to rest. You should’ve worked harder all winter. You should’ve eaten better.”

I walk a while, panting. Gradually, my breath slows. I reach the lakeshore. I pause, and then I run again, turning back toward home.

My brain is so mentally exhausted, my body so worn down by self-loathing, that my pace lags. I feel discontented, disconnected. The sun moves ever higher in the sky. The clouds are a brilliant white. If I looked at them, I might see shapes or figures. I might dream dreams bigger than myself.

I stare down at my body instead. Yank up my shorts. Pull down my shirt. Ball my hands into fists.

I return home, wiped.

***

I lived this way, literally ran this way, existed this way for so many years. I thought that the best way to motivate myself, especially physically, was to degrade myself for all the things I could be doing better. All the people who were doing it better than I was.

I was approaching my life from a place of fear, anxiety, and hatred. Or worse: shame.

The unavoidable conclusion of near-middle-age is, though, that shame can’t get you very far. Its endgame is exhaustion.

And so I’ve worked very hard, throughout my 30s and post-difficult birth/pregnancy of my second son, to finally get to a place where I choose to approach my body, myself, my life, and the world from a different starting point.

What if I chose out of love?

I started trying it last year in my runs and workouts. I’d feel tired and ask my body what it needed. Sometimes it needed rest, or massage, or stretching, or water. Sometimes it needed to push through, just a bit more energy, to accomplish more than I first thought possible. My body just needed to be heard, to ask for what it needs and to be loved for who I am.

I realized that this was bigger than my body, though. And I started to ask myself what I needed - in general - all the time.

It sounds simple, but especially if you’re in a career field where you’re a caregiver - and if you’re a parent or caring for loved ones at home - too often you can live entire years of your life thinking that the only way to live is as though you personally have no needs at all.

I used to love that song I am a rock.

I've built walls
A fortress deep and mighty
That none may penetrate
I have no need of friendship, friendship causes pains
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain
I am a rock I am an island

Don't talk of love
Well I've heard the word before
It's sleeping in my memory
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died
If I never loved I never would have cried
I am a rock I am an island

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armor
Hiding in my room safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me
I am a rock I am an island

And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries

I thought wouldn’t that be great? A rock feels no pain. An island never cries.

But it’s a lie.

No man is an island, entire of itself.

The good in life only comes when we love. When we start with love.

It is the isolation of supposed invulnerability that actually makes me cry, for the fear of admitting that I am a person, a part of creation, and I have needs.

So I start confronting myself, answering my own questions, from a place of self-compassion and love. For my body. For my soul.

Which makes it so much easier to start confronting the world and the rest of creation in much the same way.

What if I chose out of love first?

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