Aah, it’s that time of year again…when things start to slow down with the darker, colder days, and also feel frenetic around holidays, travel, obligation. But it’s also the time of year that tends to force reflection, so if, say, you have a defunct blog sitting out there ready to welcome you back with one simple login, you might be compelled to actually login and start typing.
I honestly don’t mind winter, or at least I’ve reached the point where I’ve acclimated to runs in the dark and multiple layers. I will confess, however, that I’ve created a secret countdown to February 27, which, according to social media, is the first time last year I shared something about a first hint of spring. At the same time, I feel very much in survival mode until January 2. This weekend will be the first of several family holiday events, and sometimes the emotional landscape surrounding these events can kick up some dust. So, I’m doing my best to give myself some space to feel what I need to feel and to acknowledge that this too is just a season.
I have a vivid memory of sitting on my couch during the first weekend of January last year. It was after a very cold run that I had delayed as long as possible that morning (sub-zero temps), and the window panes were painted with frost. In the stupor of the new year, or rather in the spirit of some kind of resolution, I had set an annual reading goal for myself that I was anxious to get started on. It seemed lofty and idealistic in that way the beginning of a new year inspires. I was sitting under a blanket, having just finished Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, and my husband walked in the door with a copy of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly that he had plucked out of our neighborhood’s Little Free Library. The Christmas tree lights were still glowing, and there was nothing to do but to stay cozy and read. This image has become my beacon of hope; on the other side of the holiday madness there is a couch and there are new-to-me books.
Since I last wrote here, I ran my first marathon in 11 years. I’m not exactly sure what kept me from returning to the marathon distance for so long, probably a mixture of fear and sanity. The last one hadn’t gone so well, and I finished that training cycle feeling deflated and unhealthy. I wasn’t planning on a fall marathon until a sleepless night in July right before fall training was about to formally kick off for another half. My spring half marathon had been very lackluster, and a little voice in my head said “Maybe you should run a marathon.” I tentatively mentioned it to my coach, and figured I’d see how it went in those initial few weeks. But then? I loved it. I loved every second of training. I genuinely got excited by seeing longer, more aggressive runs pop onto my training calendar. I never felt too tired, I slept like a baby. I mastered the art of breaking the longest long runs into very manageable mental thirds. I blew the dust off my hydration vest and loaded myself up with gels. I looked forward to my Saturday morning post-run feasts.
So, I’ve decided that marathoning is very much for me, and I’m gearing up for another one this spring. I’m itching to work harder, I’ve spent the last few weeks fine-tuning my mental arsenal. I replaced the batteries in my headlamp, and I upgraded my reflective gear. 2019—I’m coming for you.
P.S. In case you were wondering, I’m dangerously close to hitting my reading goal for the year. Three more books to go to hit 50…
