(c) 2014 Trina Lambert

(c) 2014 Trina Lambert

Though I’ve been quiet for awhile now about running difficulties and physical therapy—because those topics are so darn frustrating and BORING—I am still busy running (short distances), doing my (mostly) daily exercises, and getting physical therapy. By now I have two physical therapists, plus one who is on medical leave but advising my current PTs—as you can see I am a real trouble-maker.

I can walk, run, dance, and do most activities in my life with ease—what I still can’t do is sleep well. Unfortunately, what I’ve noticed is that when I’ve taken breaks from running, my sleeping pains have diminished. That insight does not please me and so I haven’t considered stopping again after I’ve worked so hard to get to run once more.

Both my active PTs have stated to me how I’m a really committed runner so I started arguing about how that couldn’t be true. I don’t run far or often—partially because I’m getting messages from my body not to do so—but maybe because I wouldn’t anyway. But the thought of giving it up? That—I’m too stubborn to do. So I realized, maybe I am strongly committed in my own casual way?

When our kids were infants, Sherman’s parents invited our family, his brothers and family, and my parents to spend Christmas in the mountains with them. As such we went to Christmas Eve mass with his family—even if we didn’t quite make it out as late as to attend Midnight Mass. Christmas brings a variety of semi-straying sheep back to the fold, including those still in their ski pants in ski resort areas. What the priest said that night has stuck with both Sherman and me. The priest said, “To the world—even if you only go to church at Christmas and Easter—you are the Christians.”

If you think about it, that same logic can be applied to anything we do—religiously, so to speak—even if we don’t do it enough to be considered committed in the same manner as people who dedicate their daily lives to a practice. Compared to those fast women in my running club who put in miles and miles on the roads, trails, and/or treadmills all year, every season, in all sorts of weather and lighting conditions, I am only dabbling at this activity.

And yet to many of the people who drive by me on the road, I am out there doing this activity that they don’t ever do—and often don’t even understand why I do it—or why I would even want to do it, much less work so hard to be able to keep doing it.

This afternoon I’ll be going to the club track practice where almost all the women there run more than I do. I know that most of them are way more committed than I am, but I’m starting to understand that doesn’t mean I am not committed. These evenings at practice are sacred time to me and that track is holy ground under my feet.

In the end, it’s about me and my practice and what it means to me. I still have faith in this thing that is bigger than me, though my body—and I—have often strayed. All I know is I am not ready to commit myself to my couch—or just to giving up this particular pursuit—any time soon.

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