tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64178156110939721802024-02-22T01:31:36.419-05:00*I Paint The World*Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-79645741827177757062019-07-17T15:33:00.002-04:002019-07-17T15:33:14.007-04:00Balance. 6 1/2 months postpartum, am I finally realizing what that might be?<br />
Maybe for me it is<br />
not running an hour on weekdays and 2+ hours on weekends<br />
letting my baby fall asleep in my arms and lingering with her there long after she has fallen asleep. because the very best thing in the world is to have her in my arms - safe, contented, at rest.<br />
maybe it is doing a 30 minute PiYo workout, feeling my body flow smoothly through the motions, and letting that be enough for the day. taking a moment to sit and write. making a cup of tea and sitting to taste it. not looking at my phone impulsively.<br />
<br />
letting great moments go un-photographed.<br />
<br />
i never thought running would take the back seat that it has taken. i thought it might have to, but that i would fight to keep it at the forefront of my priority list. but it's slipping out of focus, and i'm okay with that. i run hard on the treadmill when i want to, putts slowly through the forest when i can, take the whole pack out with the jogging stroller on occasion. but i feel calm about it. it is losing its grip on my life. and i like that. i think i've always wanted that on some level, but have been too afraid of it, and had no real reason to allow it to morph so drastically into something different.<br />
<br />
I still picture myself running through the quiet forest, dancing along the rolling trails for days at a time, but my happy place has expanded to include something else, <i>someone </i>else. and I really like that.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-4160077657500674012017-11-05T13:07:00.000-05:002019-08-07T14:45:03.728-04:00*To What Comes Next*I want to reflect on this while it's fresh. Charlie is in bed. There's an ice pack on his leg with a sock over it. I'm here on the floor next to him <strike>devouring</strike> delicately nibbling away at a smoothie bowl. We had a day. Just a normal day. Another long run in the woods. Except it wasn't just another day.<br />
<br />
My running "career" has been interesting. Or maybe not that interesting. But it's my life, so to me it is titillating. At some point I crossed the line from running for fun into running far. Some would argue they are one and the same, and while at times I agree, for me there is also a definite line. Running for fun means my husband doesn't notice I'm gone, doesn't require extra groceries, and rarely results in major bio mechanical problems. Running far takes unreasonable amounts of time, requires eating every 3 hours (at the <i>most. </i> I do not recommend such long stretches between nosh sessions), and often sends me rolling around on a lacrosse ball wincing in pain. It also sends me into a state of pure euphoria I'm not sure I want to live without.<br />
<br />
Last year I embarked on a new adventure - Grad school. I have died and come back to life 8 times since. In 6 weeks I will be done with classes, and a final project will stand between me and a Masters degree. I never imagined I could do it, but I'm doing it. And while it's not always very pretty, I'm doing it <i>well</i>.<br />
<br />
There's something about the things I'm not sure I can do. Things that require preparation to do them well and enjoy them.<br />
<br />
And there's something about the paths I've never seen. My favorite runs are the ones when I don't know what to expect. The ones that require a little bit of preparation, a little bit of brains, and a little bit of chance; the ones I don't sleep before because I can't wait to wake up the next morning <i>and run. </i>I had two such runs this summer, two weeks apart - one an organized event, the other an endeavor planned on the drive to the trail head with a friend. The best part? Poodle was part of both.<br />
<br />
*Note: I'm finishing this post 5 months later, but it deserves finishing because 1) it's been years since I've actually finished a blog post, 2) I want to remember, and 3) I want to call out just how special this part of my life has been.<br />
<br />
Before I move on with my life (and I will, because despite how difficult transitions are for me, moving on is something I always do), I want to pause to say this:<br />
<br />
Running has seeped into me and become a part of me I can't separate myself from. When I say running I smell the air as I enter the forest, feel the temperature change as I descend into a ravine, sense my legs moving beneath me- sometimes strong, sometimes heavy, but always always always grateful to be out. It's not just something I do. It's not "exercise". I don't care how far I run anymore or how long it takes me to get from one park to another. I care about being out, moving freely through beautiful spaces. It's my deep breath, my sigh, my life-is-beautiful-no-matter-what, my sacred space, my center. I am so grateful to have this, and to have had it to this extreme, and to have a body that has allowed it.<br />
<br />
Charlie ran 38 miles with me in the Adirondacks, then ran the final 20 miles of Many on the Genny with me two weeks later.<br />
<br />
At a time when I thought running couldn't get any better, three weeks before the longest, most challenging race of my life, I decided to add this ridiculous creature to my life. I doubted myself and my need for him every day until he turned 1 and started joining me for short runs. He'd run 3 miles with me and then sleep all day. Then 4, then 5.. I don't remember when, but eventually he was as fit as me. Running was no longer mine, it was ours. Anyone who's ever run with him knows - he comes alive in the woods. His whole being shudders with joy. The things I feel when I run - the indescribable exuberance, he can somehow show it to the world.<br />
<br />
I have run three times without Charlie in the last year and a half. Two were races - 0 Degree Winter Trail Festival and Cayuga Trails marathon. I was miserable for both. The other was two days after Many on the Genny. He was so tired and sore and I thought I had broken him, so I forced him to rest. I'm quite sure he yelped the full 30 minutes I was gone. Never again, sweet poodle. You're the best forest friend I could ever ask for. We go together.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwj5OV5yxf-5T4lo1IrFlZYgQ7JGXlxoGv2DkxYUlCGquDgXgh52DbKx3Ob1SpXfE8_xO28NhfoE4UHkh8M_L4jVwCrwir2QsMEcwtrGrNJGY0A0q_UFXJcTx1f-9x3Qx0iWgEvXGLPKq/s1600/IMG_2123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwj5OV5yxf-5T4lo1IrFlZYgQ7JGXlxoGv2DkxYUlCGquDgXgh52DbKx3Ob1SpXfE8_xO28NhfoE4UHkh8M_L4jVwCrwir2QsMEcwtrGrNJGY0A0q_UFXJcTx1f-9x3Qx0iWgEvXGLPKq/s320/IMG_2123.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mile 34, Northville-Placid Trail, ADK. <br />
Filtering/refilling water before crossing the river before dusk.</td></tr>
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<br />
Hey life - I can't predict what you'll bring, but everything up until this point has been pretty damn incredible. A lot of it hasn't been easy, but that's how it goes when something inside of you keeps pushing you to do more, go farther, be better. Becoming. That's what we're doing. Always.<br />
<br />
May you never forget the moments that have made you who you are. Most of them aren't photographed. Many of them were solo. And many were when you stopped mid-stride to soak in a stunning sight, crouch beside a stream, absorb your surroundings quietly.<br />
<br />
May you never fully arrive. To do so would be to stop moving forward. And I hope you're never okay with that.<br />
<br />
*to what comes next*<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-10071192066954119452016-07-22T09:03:00.003-04:002016-07-22T09:12:01.918-04:00Unpublished Posts I found this post from <i>2012 </i>in draft form and thought it might be time to publish it as a reminder to myself of just how good life is:<br />
<br />
For feet that run so far my toenails turn black For cats that sit on the kitchen table to be closer to my typing fingers For the beautiful girl sleeping on my couch (please, stay near...)
For the tonic in my fridge, the muffins in my oven
For a job that makes a difference, allows me the freedom I crave, and taught me there just might be a "career" for me
For a love who is always always always happy to see me, is consistent in every way, makes me want to be better, and catches delicious fishes!
For growing relationships with family
For 6 jars of honey, all different
For the air that intoxicates and the sun that tickles my soul
For the friends who have not only stayed, but have worked with me to allow ourselves to grow, <i>together</i>
For the ability to put fresh fruits and vegetables together to create something delicious<br />
<br />
And then these few unpublished lines from <i>June 2013</i>, just two months after the Boston marathon:<br />
<br />
Clean and beautiful. This summer the lake will take the dust that is settling upon me far from me so that I can carry on and be better without being stained. I see smoke but the smoke cannot keep me, and I have an ache that can't have me.<br />
<br />
And then almost 2 years later, <i>April 2015</i>:<br />
Friday morning, after a week of post-race fatigue following a 20k trail race and a 77.7 mile bike/run around Seneca Lake, I wiggled out of bed, made myself tea and oats, wandered around my tiny kitchen marveling at our renovation progress, filled my bladder half way, spent a little more time than usual chatting with the chickens, grabbed warmer gloves, made a mental note that my car could use a wash, and made my way to the trail. I was quiet, and my stomach flitted with excitement. I needed more sleep. And I couldn't wait to run. Welcome to my world. I don't write about this much, as it's a part of my life that is so integral to the core of who I am that I don't feel the need to share it or explain it. It's not the run, per se, but rather the way my body, my mind, my entire being is released from the grip of every other part of its self. It's the stepping away from all the things that define me, the allowing me to just be me, in whatever mental and physical state I find myself in a given moment. It is freedom.<br />
<br />
And now, in July 2016, I am reminded just how good life has been to me. And I am grateful.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-2466531874150866122016-03-01T17:14:00.001-05:002016-03-01T17:19:42.965-05:00Background MusicI can't quite settle with the fact that 2015 will not be summed up concisely in ink to be stored in one place forever for all the world to read and understand. I feel I've broken a promise to myself by not doing so, but mostly I feel cheated; I both want and need to remember the year, and really, it's not so complicated.<br />
<br />
<b>The 100K.</b><br />
<br />
Why do I feel the need to hold on to and remember this process? Not the race, because that came and went in a day, but the training.<br />
<br />
Because it consumed me. For 6 months Twisted Branch <i>was </i>me. I was Twisted Branch. I can think of only one other thing that ever pushed me to this state of being. When I think back I am filled with awe and disgust, appreciation and frustration. I put this one thing above all other things in my life. For 6 months. And I cannot explain why. You can listen to my attempt at doing so <a href="http://www.runninginsideoutpodcast.com/kendra-chamberlain/">here</a> (my portion starts about 34 minutes in), or read about it <a href="http://i-paint-the-world.blogspot.com/2015/08/twisted-branch-why.html">here</a>, but still I believe there was more to it. I found something out there on the trails, with nothing but my pack and a Timex watch, for <i>hours.</i> I found more than just miles, hills, and wilderness. I was becoming something, and even in the hours that hurt, <i>I loved who I was. </i>I was focused and free. I was intentional and frivolous<i>. </i>Playful and determined. <i>Reverent and wild. </i>I was all the things I want to be on a daily basis but am not. The woods, the trails, the air, the sun, the rush and the struggle, they stripped me down and let me be me. And there I was, raw... and so deeply contented.<br />
<br />
That's a hard thing to explain to someone when what they saw was the choice I made to spend 15-20 hours a week running. They saw intense fatigue, ailments from over and misuse, debilitating hunger and plummeting glucose levels, unnecessary focus and stress to stay on schedule.<br />
They saw the time I wasn't spending with them.<br />
<br />
When I crossed the finish line, almost to-the-minute of the time I had hoped for and predicted, I had to take a moment to swallow hard and let the realization that it was over flood through me. 6 months of relentlessly pushing my body, my mind, and the boundaries of each day so that I might find myself in this exact moment - in one piece on the other side of the finish line, <i>happy</i>. What I felt: relief. And sadness. Because despite how much I loved it and that I can't think of anything I'd rather do for 13 hours, I knew I wouldn't be doing it again.<br />
<br />
I want to see this world by foot. I need to bare my soul in the forest with endless trail in front of me and the rest of my life waiting patiently for my return. I need to separate from the world so I can see and feel and hear my self... or nothing at all.<br />
<br />
<i>tbc</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-89791227899531253922015-08-07T17:19:00.001-04:002015-08-07T17:19:11.410-04:00Twisted Branch - The Why*I’ve been needing to write about this for a while now. I say I need to have a reason. It’s always on my mind. I avoid it because I am already convinced no reason will suffice.<br />
<br />
What drives me, or rather, what draws me…<br />
<br />
Truth-be-told, I don’t feel much drive. What I feel is a tangible pull on that place inside me, the one responsible for so many of the major decisions I’ve made in my life. The pull lifts me out of bed, draws me toward the woods. It dissipates into a light airiness mixed with a bright warmth when I roll through the hills, blinded by glimpses of new sun. The forest is speckled with shadows, and I swear the dirt giggles, the rocks shake off the night, the river breathes a sigh of relief. I gasp when I look a certain way, catch a particular view. It is morning – the precious hour after time stands still and before it flits away. I see no one. I hear every sound – the toads are antelope, the chipmunks are gorillas. The birds prepare their song for the day ahead. I am a captive audience.<br />
<br />
It’s something about the smell – the transition from one stage to the next. Able legs turning corners, skipping over roots, dancing around rocks, letting go and flying recklessly down hills, trusting they will catch me, knowing they will respond, knowing that each time they get stronger. Occasionally I glance at my watch, counting the minutes I have left, not the minutes I still have to go. Because I don’t <i>have </i>to go. I don’t have to do this at all.<br />
<br />
Twisted Branch training pushed me to a point I’ve never been. Multiple points, actually. For the first time I woke in the middle of the night and cringed at the thought of waking up a few hours later to run. I went from just moving to make it through the winter, to speed workouts, hill workouts, and back-to-back long runs practically overnight. I asked my body to do more, to go farther, to push harder, to climb higher, and it did. It said okay. It balked at points – taking it out on my foot, my calf, my knee, and at times, the most painful, my psyche, but for the most part it agreed.
So why have I done it? Perhaps because whether I was “training” or not, I would have wanted to be out. Being unattached, disconnected, with no one and nothing save myself and, when the occasion called, my pack, puts me at the base-line of who I am; it is from this point that I can approach the remainder of the day with a sound mind, a full soul, and something to give.<br />
<br />
But then, why Twisted Branch? Why 100k? It wasn’t the next natural step. I don’t feel I have anything to prove. Now that I’m here and I’m going to make it to the starting line the reality is setting in that I’ve done all I can. The hardest work is done. I can’t go back and change any of it now. All I can do is keep myself sharp while slowly easing back, hopefully resulting in more energy and excitement come August 29th.
The reality is that this “race” could take upwards of 16 hours. In fact, it probably will. That’s terrifying. How can anyone move across rugged terrain for that long, much less run? I might not finish. It could happen. But what if I do? What if I cross the finish line, bruised and cut and beat-up and depleted… and then, what if I’m happy?<br />
<br />
I can’t keep thinking about why, and so I have to conclude that there is no good reason. This is something intrinsically driven, entirely for me. It does not make sense. It defies logic. It is far more than a love for<i> the run</i>. I cannot explain it, and even if I could, it would be understood by no one other than the minority who do the same thing. Amongst one another there is no need to explain why. Our reasons are different and the same; something connects. But amongst the rest of the world, if I must explain, it will never make sense.<br />
<br />
And so, for the sake of my own sanity, I’m choosing not to explain. If you get it you don’t need it, and if you don’t, you won’t. And that’s okay. The part of me that understands the natural world can get over the fact that this will never make sense, and the part of me that understands nothing of the natural world will sigh with relief as I accept this part of me, inexplicable, beautiful, tragic, and for some reason, necessary.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>
“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” –Howard Thurman</i>
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-1039424637298742692014-09-08T08:21:00.004-04:002017-01-24T13:02:07.155-05:00DesertI don't remember how it happened. I only remember loving her deeply. No transition, no process.
They are friends of my soul - these few people scattered around the world who know me absolutely and love me for no reason at all.
I've all but turned my back on the world I spent years building for myself. Once upon a time I spent hours listening to the problems of the people around me, offering advice, a shoulder, apologetic murmurers, prayers.
Five years ago I spent three months driving around the country with a soul friend. Yosemite changed me as I saw myself in this world, the Pacific accepted my tumultuous soul, but the moment that sticks out to me the most was climbing through sand dunes in Western Texas. After a hundred miles of driving with no sign of another car, we parked and crawled around the dunes, soaking our sore feet in the raw white sand, blue sky and sun casting glitter all around. I snapped my fingers, it seemed, and the sky turned black, the wind slapped the once tame sand into our legs, our eyes, our hair. It burned and I felt my insides collapse. I sank into the sandy world, wrapping myself into a ball, and wept. No one needed me anymore. No one knew where I was. <i>I</i> barely knew where I was. No one could access me. <b>I was alone</b>. I could not help anyone. My soul friend held my head and rubbed my hair, singing softly in Portuguese, and the weight of every tear I'd held that wasn't my own, every burden I'd carried that wasn't mine to care for, drained out of me like bad blood leaving the body, never to return.
It was then that I began to slowly allow the ties that drained me to come undone. It was my freedom journey, the first time I'd done something entirely for myself. And I was hooked.
Seven years ago I put my paint brush down and held her hand in the bathroom. I saw her in front of me and from the side through the brightly lit mirror spanning the multiple dorm sinks. Her bony shoulders caved into her body and her narrow wrists went limp. Oh, how she loved him, but he couldn't stay away from that witch. They would never be the same, and neither would we. Seven years later we would hold each other shaking, sobbing for the lost time and the magic of a reunion that mattered, of once again touching the skin of someone I don't remember falling in love with, only loving.
I say this to remind myself that I am the luckiest of girls, to have people in my life who will love me deeply on a level I will never understand but trust I will always know. It's the very thing that makes average relationships difficult to care for and large formal gatherings tasteless. On the desert floor with nothing but my car and a hand to hold... this is what matters, this is what I need... the assurance of their souls existing beside mine. I can't explain it any more than that.
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-77628960832731398122014-03-16T20:13:00.000-04:002014-03-16T20:13:24.138-04:00I Told YouFirst, I must join the masses in a deafening chorus, begging please, please...
I can't be cold
another day. I can't slip
every time I raise my eyes
from the pavement beneath my
salt-stiffened winter running
shoes. But look, Spring is coming!
No, that's a blizzard. You will shovel for two hours -
15 degrees, 30 mph winds. You will give up
and use your neighbors driveway to plow
your spent Subaru the rest of the way
to the road that looks more like a trail.
God bless the humans who walk their happy dogs daily.
I'm ready to pay to live in
California - where the avocados are 5 for $1, the pumellos quench your thirst, the artichokes run rampant
The waves have no sense of self-preservation - crashing, repeatedly. No mercy. You never stop. You never give up.
It's maddening. You're maddening. And brilliant. And I can't stop thinking about you, the way you whistle, you sing, and always have something to say. I want to hear it all.
Let's have a cup of joe
and chat awhile. I'll just sit here quietly. Come a little closer, please. I'll stay right here. You make me still... not many things do.
Las Trampas, San Francisco, Dungeness Crab, Berkeley, Big Sur
Highway 1.
Three years ago my master plan was thwarted. I'm glad it was. But the dream is alive again. I've caught the scent of the ocean, the taste of the sea. <i>I know again</i>
The best part is, I'm not alone this time.
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-3683202082669029312013-10-23T16:43:00.000-04:002013-10-23T16:43:37.553-04:00Poof*Some time in the last few months I stopped trying to convince myself of everything, <i>and that has made all the difference.</i>
2013 was supposed to be my year. Looking at the here and now, it certainly is. I feel blessed beyond anything I could have earned and excited about life in a most real way. I can't say exactly when it changed. On April 15th I walked away from Boston with weights around my ankles. I pulled a black cap over my head, tied my running shoes on for a trail marathon 6 weeks later, and then let myself forget that <i>I love to run.</i>
The months between April and now were not a blur. I was very aware of my state of being.. of my lack of interest in people and ideas. Nothing made me calm except walking with E. I toyed with the idea of seeing a therapist, even made a phone call once, but work got busy and I got tired, and really, I didn't much feel like talking anyway.
I walked 50 miles on Cape Cod in September. How amazing it felt to walk all day... to participate in an event rather than plan it, to be far from home among people with a purpose. I saw the ocean, got buzzed on limitless beer, called my dear Dandylion, and felt the fresh air saturating my lungs, washing my skin. I didn't notice that anything in particular happened, or that at a certain time something changed, but when I think back, the time between Boston and Cape Cod was one segment and the time after Cape Cod has been another.
After Cape Cod we bought a house. We moved in. I planted garlic in my own garden, mowed my own lawn, felt myself sinking deeply into this thing called love, <i>and loving it</i>. I spent $70 on a pair of boots I have yet to wear and got my hair cut so I could sit and do nothing while someone else worked for me. I planned an executed a brand new event <i>brilliantly</i>. I looked at myself in the mirror and liked what I saw.
Every now and again a piece of the past pops up, reminding me of who I was and where I was going. My heart stirs a bit and I'm confused and sad for the briefest moment. Not because I wish my life had taken another form, but because I still can't piece together exactly what happened, and because I know how confusing my life looks to the people who knew me then but don't know me anymore.
I am happy now. I couldn't say that then. I am living instead of believing that one day my dreams would come true, the fairy tale would come to fruition. <i>This is my fairy tale</i>, and I'm not one bit disappointed.
I need to read more, to work harder, to step back and look at my surroundings, see through people but also see them as they are. That's how I want people to see me - as a potent poof of the inexplicable, but also as a fact... as something solid and sure, because for the first time in my life, that's how I feel.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-57887750369376121682013-07-28T16:33:00.002-04:002013-08-02T07:38:55.472-04:00CohibaDays morph together and the never ending Spring threatens to spur forth Autumn whilst I rest in the whispers of Summer. There are thanks to be given, apologies to deliver, excuses to settle. I have yet to express my gratitude to the many people who supported my trip down Boylston St. I regret not doing so sooner, but I couldn't. I still don't think I can.
I sat with my feet in front of me analyzing the paint wearing off the porch floor, the red ring forming in the bottom of my wine glass, the tiny leaves growing in the pots descending the stairs. My mind slowed as rain drops tickled the ground, clearing the air. Alone with my Cohiba, I settled, closed my eyes, realized the state of my soul <i>now</i>. I was overwhelmed with love, hurt, anger, excitement, thinking thoughts I just might vocalize if provoked, wishing very much for the external push to bring them forth, as though letting them out would satisfy me in some sickening way.
I need to grow. Loving my job is not enough. I need to meet more people, teach myself and learn on my own time, push my physical, emotional, and mental limits and see what happens. Running is not enough anymore. Slowly I become more in control, more aware of my choices, of the passing minutes, the calendar pages turning. I feel capable and able - to succeed at another job, to take on a second job, to learn something I've always wanted to, like bar tending or real estate. But feeling able doesn't make anything happen. And oh, how I've enjoyed settling in to this life, getting to a place where I am calm, quiet, confident. Dissatisfaction produces change, and I'm so satisfied, so happy. This time the change needs to come from a need to not change my life or make something better out of what is already really great, but to continue to <i>add to</i> this life that is already beautiful beyond belief...
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-63262164236692527112013-05-20T16:27:00.001-04:002013-05-20T16:43:38.953-04:00Chair Day - Post Boston MusingsThis morning I stood for 10 minutes, turned to consider my stability ball in the corner, and have been sitting in this office chair ever since. I wrote the following two months ago:
"I love that I have a job that I care about, a job that I lose sleep over, a job that, come May 6th, will have made me a new girl".
The months between January and May changed me. I knew that's what they were doing while living them. I knew that when they were over I would sit down in a quiet, dark office to write this post and say that these months proved how hard I was capable of working, that I had never cared so much about a job, that I was tired and invigorated and grateful and overwhelmed and calm all at the same time, and that that combination is <i>intoxicating</i>.
I also knew that when it was over, I would crash.
Monday, April 15th changed me- The 117th Annual Boston Marathon. I was tired going in to the race, preoccupied with thoughts (and nightmares) of Walk MS, which would take place 3 weeks later. I failed at carbo loading, many thanks to my sometimes dysfunctional digestive system. And I was ready to go home before I even left for Boston.
That being said, every marathoner who has a chance to run Boston, should. I am so glad I did. I am so glad I trained (and complained) my way through the cold, dark, miserable (get the point?) Upstate New York winter in order to run decently on race-day. If I run Boston again I will absolutely run for Boston Children's Hospital. I am amazed at the quality of the Miles for Miracles fundraising program and was so proud to be wearing their jersey on Marathon Monday.
I re-qualified, should I desire to run in 2014, but honestly, I'm not so sure. It's not because of the explosions an hour after I finished and the chaos that followed, nor does it have anything to do with the challenges the course itself presents.
Or...
maybe it is. Maybe I'm tired of pounding my body into the pavement day after day, logging 65+ mile weeks, being famished all the time. Maybe I'd rather go for a walk and drink coffee in the morning with my most wonderful man than head out solo for an hour and a half run before work. Maybe watching the smoke and masses of people running in each direction from the 7th floor of the Westin and being left to find my way out of a city I did not know and was not safe in marred me in a way I have yet to come to terms with. What I do know is that I wanted to collapse into E's arms and be carried home to my bed the minute I crossed the finish line. I was done. The 20 minute walk to the family meeting area was more agonizing than the race itself. And when the event went from physically exhausting to emotionally and psychologically debilitating, the pain of realization and even understanding were at times too much for this one mind to hold. I crumbled in the most unexpected ways. I will not forget the feeling in the week that followed of being unable to wrap my brain around simple concepts, being brought to tears by too many people speaking at once, being distraught by fear and flashbacks.. and I was three blocks away. My heart goes to those who were en route to the finish line.. to those waiting there for their loved ones to run by. I cannot, nor do I want to, imagine.
This wasn't going to be a post about Boston. It was going to be mostly about Walk MS and striving to meet goals and taking pride in what I do. It was going to be about things larger than myself that have shaped mere me.
I still smell Boston. I feel the quiet and simplicity of the starting line, see the endless, encouraging people lining the streets, sense my brother suddenly by my side at mile 20. I was blinded by the sun as I turned the corner onto Boylston Street, knowing my parents were there somewhere in the crowd but unable to pick them out of the thousands of shouting, cheering voices. I crossed the finish line and wobbled to my right, bumping into a blonde haired girl and muttering something about it hurting more to stop. She agreed. I took a sip of water and my stomach tightened into a painful mess of "that's enough, get me out of here, please, no more". It felt like there were hundreds of people closing in on me, pushing me slowly through the chute: foil blanket, medal, photo, follow the signs to your parents and lover, just follow the signs, keep moving, if you curl up and cry now you'll never get there."
And that was before it got intense.
Dear Boston, I respect you. I appreciate what you do for people like me. But I've seen enough of you for awhile, and I can't say with certainty when I'll be back. This one is going to take some time to recover from. You are brilliantly vibrant, and you will bounce back and be better than ever, I am certain of it.. in fact, we will all bounce back, eventually.
Some things just take longer than 3 hours and 26 minutes.
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-2452646235259002752013-01-18T10:23:00.002-05:002013-01-18T10:23:41.296-05:00Year of the SnakeA bed familiar but not mine; Nostalgic.
(Shh, don't tell!)
His snoring keeps me on the outskirts of sleep as the sun reveals the promised new year. He cracks the window, letting the cold scrub us- between my toes, behind my ears, around my eyes, massaging my neck and back, Ah!
All is sepia- the tree, the sky, the small flakes floating to the ground.
It's 2013.
It's my year.
It's my year to rid myself of anger, jealousy, and bitterness, to enjoy the sun and the couch, to read books and absorb films, to nurture relationships and acknowledge my own needs. It's my year to run the Boston Marathon, to raise money for someone else, to see this new job through, to turn 26 (oh my!), to run an Ultra Marathon.
I'll go to Europe. Perhaps reconnect with my Bulgarian love, Maria. Maria!
I'll fight this anxiety caused by extreme changes over a few short years by realizing what I love and what I lack. I'll push myself to the core of my insecurity by asking who I am and who I wish I was, and "why"? And when I am forced to act in inexplicable ways, I will in turn force myself to be a part of real conversations with real words and concrete explanations for why I feel the way I do. I will speak.
And perhaps I will stop being ashamed.
I am proud to be a part of things that even some of the closest people to me don't understand, because these things are a part of me, and though I admit to my sometimes insane insecurity, I love being me.
I run far because I love to. I believe in God because I've felt Him, and because I want to. I am with this marvelous man because I love him and he makes life better.
I don't paint enough, or make enough music, or climb to a high place and watch the world below enough.
But 2013 is my year:
A rabbit in the year of the snake.
Mine.
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-70536887276576788902012-10-23T21:17:00.000-04:002012-10-23T21:20:27.311-04:00Monday night I pulled garlic from the garden. Moist dirt clung to my bare feet. I stopped thinking about the time, the other things I could or "should" be doing, stopped listening to the tension in my head that is always disputing and questioning the choices I've made that have brought me to this point. I washed hand-fulls of garlic in blue buckets of rainwater and then sat on a brick cutting the roots from the cloves, trimming the greens while E pointed out flowers from the brick beside me. We waited for something quietly. Calm. It is this peace that I've always been waiting for, always been looking for, always been drawn to. How strange that it should be the very thing which I disturb daily.
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-91596161149876764952012-10-22T16:06:00.002-04:002012-10-23T11:43:40.969-04:00And I bake cookies for the warm, aromatic kitchen, and to lick the spatulaThe leaves turned orange while I was sleeping. I haven't quite woken up yet, but when I do they'll surely be on the ground in thick, cold, sheets, wet with thick air, wreaking of snow.
I pull myself into a ripped porch rocking chair too small for my body, open <i>the bean trees</i> and read for the first time in months. I am driving through Kentucky with a Cherokee child clutching my spare hand. I am driving illegal aliens to safety..
Life has slowed down. But what is more interesting is that <i>I</i> have slowed down. My insides are calm other than to burst with an emotion I cannot put words to. It happens when I crunch through the leaves, feel sun mix with October air, spot a dog smiling as he sniffs his way through the streets. It happens when I think about my Jenya, smiling goofily, happy just to see me.
I've been "good" for a longer spell than I remember in the last years, maybe ever. I am aware of problems and darkness, both personal and worldy. But finally I am in a position where I am able to observe, realize, take steps toward change, and carry on. I say "omm" with the masses and <i>Namaste</i>.
Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-33299529853546222042012-07-06T21:32:00.001-04:002012-07-06T21:32:38.160-04:00AhoyWe ate truly excellent sushi in a quiet restaurant with a cheap-sounding name. I was hot but happy and maybe cranky because my eyes were sinking into my face and my brain felt the tingle of a thing well beyond fatigue settling in.
We held hands strolling into the glen. I took off my shoes and walked quietly into the water. There was nothing shocking, nothing dangerous. Quiet. Down one step of a waterfall. A doe in the greens beside the path, peering at us- fearless with dark dancing eyes.
We were here a year ago, remember?
When you met me in front of 7-11 in your car I was disappointed. I had pictured you walking through this part of the city you deemed sketchy in your sharp shoes and button-up, that goofy smile on your face as you saw me. But then there you were, cutting me off in your car just as I had begun to flow. Of course you wanted me to get in, which I did. But did you know I was upset? I felt wild for a moment, and I liked it.
I folded fresh spinach into a slice of homemade pizza- sauce made in my food processor, basil plant now growing on my table- poured soy milk into my new tiny tall thin impractical free-at-a-garage-sale "mug", changed into as little clothing as I could rationalize, and floated onto the side walk, down the street, up that street, over this street. Through my city I walked, 94degrees and sunny. Happy as a hippo.. yes, a hippo!
She sent me a letter talking about the big trees, finding her hiking legs, reading born to run and wanting to move. to move. to move. she's a mover too, you see. Some of us just are. It's in there and it does this thing- this swirling dancing jiving raging prancing laughing fantastic thing.
My body became its own self and did something without my permission- it stopped. Stopped running, stopped moving, stopped minding. I know it will not last, but right now I rest with my babies beside me when typically my legs and mind would dash out the door in hopes of a few more strides, a few more gulps of outdoors before the day ended.
I see my vibrant painting on the wall above the sink and I am reminded of something that passed through my mind a week ago while running in the grass beside the river-
there is still nothing that can replace the presence of God in my life. None can argue that spiritually I am much different than I was just a couple years ago, but I'm realizing that there remains a place in me reserved for the presence of God. I find I thank him deeply and profusely, usually in my car at one particular traffic light on my way to work. Not by duty or by any conscious means, but by instinct. When I run into the ocean or the river I am enveloped in liquid and I morph into a being separate from the man-made world. I am a part of something so complex that my mind stops wondering and becomes.
One.
I love your eyes. I love when they dance- because the food is so good or the atmosphere is just right or the sun and the air are too perfect a pair to comment on. I love how you love me, how you've shown me what it is to give yourself so completely and honestly to just a few people whom you know are worth your time.
I added a splash of tonic, an ice cube, and a hint of Cabernet to the rose we were sipping when you left, and now I'm sleepy and well beyond tired.
And life is so, so great.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-58991019219903731682012-02-10T01:39:00.012-05:002012-03-12T08:22:42.161-04:00Wish you were hereIt's not so hard to believe. <br /><br />That I would sleep in Walmart parking lots wear the gray "A" every day for a year live successfully <br />out of my suburu was difficult to believe. This, <em>this semi-normal life</em>, is much easier on the mind <br />the numbers <br />that F word- (shh)<br />Future.<br />Pit cherries with my tongue while creating event codes in my cubical. Cover coffee stains with file folders and toss the dented scratched painted Sigg<br />in the trash. Pull a man whom I love very much into my neck, close my eyes, <br />breathe. Don't leave.<br />My first pair of minimalist running shoes lost their tread. I've turned the television on three times since October. <br />The coffee is very black. Parsley is in my lap.<br /><br />There's a silence on this blog I am wanting to break. I've been afraid to share for fear of criticism. <br /><br />But did you know-<br />My insides leap and still when I am with him. Not much else matters.<br />(so this is what it's like...)<br /><br />[but then]<br /><br />I sit in my window, drink raspberry vodka, watch the few late night wanderers on the sidewalk, and write wreckless e-mails to my traveling companion- <br /><br /> <em>i cannot sleep. you're the only person in the world i would want to be with right now. </em><br /><br />I rarely eat peanut butter and haven't made a batch of granola in months. It's still in me, and I'm still moving, but I've moved on.<br /><br />In an attempt to play "catch up", allow me to say something as I said it in an email to a friend recently-<br /><br />The thing you are seeking in 2012 is to find out who you are and really become that person.. fully alive. I've been on that journey for years now. I've been true to myself- not a set of rules, not a book, not an image of what the people around me would want me to be. I know what makes me come alive. I know when I'm doing something because it is something that is rising up from a place of raw truth within me and when I'm stepping into a motion simply because it's what I think I should do or what I think is expected of me and acceptable to those around me. I know that right now you don't approve of certain aspects of my life. But I can honestly tell you that right now I am being true. <br /><br />We're all given different lives, different upbringings, different families, different gifts, different desires, wants.. how can we compare lives that are destined to be so different from the very beginning? And how can one life look at another and say "you're doing it wrong". My soul is different than yours. We've been exposed to different things. Maybe I've allowed my mind to wander too far, to question too much, to explore too fully.. or maybe I'm taking what I've been given, totaling every single conversation, voyage, experience of my short 24 years into something absolutely genuine and true to who I've become, not who I was. I can't be the girl I wanted to be when I was 13. Thirteen year old Kendra never expected to watch people shoot drugs openly on the streets of Camden day after day and to put those same needles in the trash when they were finished, to pioneer a movement of college kids to seek only the very heartbeat of Christ, to realize what fullness of LIFE really looked like in a third world nation of red dirt, bloated bellies, and rice. Thirteen year old Kendra didn't know she could live out of a backpack or in a trailer with 8 people, didn't know she loved mountains, didn't know she could sing. Thirteen year old Kendra didn't know what it was like to be in love.<br /><br />Finding out who you are isn't a one time thing. I think that's the mistake some people make. They decide who they're going to be and then they become that person, only to realize once they're there that it's not at all what they want. <span style="font-style:italic;">If we're engaged with life, we're going to change.</span> Life is going to change us. People are going to change us. At least they have me. <br /><br />These days my life outwardly looks very different than it did just a few months ago. My thoughts are different, my mindsets are different, my conversations take different routes but my soul, oh my soul is the same. I feel it. It wiggles and turns and moans and stirs and dances and laughs within me, always, and it is the same. hah! How does this work.. that one can change so much but feel so much the same. It is this that tells me that I'm doing something right. When I no longer recognize myself, that's when I'll be afraid.<br /><br /><br />xoKendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-17396135314516076652011-09-06T15:22:00.004-04:002011-09-06T15:52:40.634-04:00Dear Jesus,If I ask you to take me in, will you? If I ask you what it means to <em>be </em>taken in, will you tell me? If I ask you why I even care so much, what will be your response? With the help of a couple close friends I've decided it's time to communicate with you again. It will look like a discipline at first, I'm sure, but that's how many things begin. Just as it's time to stay in one place and allow myself the opportunity to realize that freedom might come just as fully in the form of solidity and assurance as it does in movement. That being said, last night as I ran into the darkness, past abundant fields and houses warm with light, the dampness of evening turning to night coating my skin, I was aware of how still my soul was. It was similar to the night I finished the sodus house. I walked into E's place and he held me and all was calm, which reminds me of the days I sprawl in the grass as far from people as I can get and stare at the sky or close my eyes and hear only the air as it brushes over my mind, cleanses my heart. There's a sense of calm that my insides notice as something unnecessarily rare, something powerful, something needed. I've found that stillness in different ways since I first met you. I've found it in the almost imperceptible pat of my feet along the ground as the miles tick behind me, I've found it in merging my days, nights, thoughts, ideas and desires with those of another individual, and I've found it in putting all thoughts of life aside and asking you to <em>take me in</em>. <br />People want proof. And you know God, I want to be able to give it to them. I want to be able to explain who you are, how I know you're the real deal, how it is that I'm certain that the power you hold can't be explained by something as obvious as the power that appears when any group of people join together to do anything at all. There is power in a group of people believing in something whether it's weight loss, environmental conservation, inner-city development, or God. <em>People</em> create movements. But I'm not looking for a movement. Not anymore. I'm looking for something real that I can carry with me into my real life filled with real people who do real things and laugh at real moments and struggle with real issues. I've tried yoga. I love it. But that point it brings me to is the same point I get to on a long solo-run, the same point I hit when I sense myself meshing seamlessly with another individual. I find myself muttering in another language, aware of every natural sound around me, unaware of traffic, unidentifiable people, tomorrows events or the structure I'm inside. The other things that set me free, they bring me back to you.<br />Yesterday Amy took my hand and dragged me to the top of a set of stairs leading to a church somewhere in South Wedge. She told me to pray. I couldn't do it. Not because I don't know how, but because I know how far too well. I could pray all day without stumbling or stuttering or pausing once. I don't want to <em>know how</em> to do this anymore, I want to <em>be</em> this. I don't want to read the right books, listen to the right music, say amen at the right times. I want to see you in my life in all your TRUTH with all the reality of who you are and what that can look like in THIS world. Maybe I've made so many mistakes I can't be forgiven and won't ever find myself on the same road I once sought. Or maybe I'm about to arrive at something even less understood than what I knew before. Maybe I'm about to be more me, more you, more alive than I ever have been before. That's what I want. But Jesus, I also want to be clean. So whatever that means, you have my permission: wash me, and please, please <em>take me in.</em>Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-70786538397564955722011-09-01T08:42:00.010-04:002011-09-07T15:34:59.466-04:00When the Mountains CloseI've been sculpting an idea which has slowly turned into a plan since November 2010.<br />Step 1: go to Rochester, live with Laura<br />Step 2: get a job<br />Step 3: live simply and with frugality in order to <strong>pay off your student loans</strong> asap <br />Step 4: make a little extra money<br />Step 5: September 1, 2011: embark on a one month odyssey in the Adirondack Mountains. Alone.<br /><br />Today is Thursday, September 1, 2011. The air is thick and cool following a morning thunder shower. My foot aches from stepping on a nail yesterday afternoon while running from the noise in my head. I swear I can smell the grass, sweet and bitter, dirt mixed with dew, clorophyl covered in raindrops. If not for the lightness of the sky and the coffee by my side I would believe the crickets that dusk is falling and night is almost come. <br /><br />I'm more than 250 miles from the Adirondack Park with no plans for departure.<br /><br />People change, sometimes, without realizing it. One morning you wake up no longer wanting to be a teacher, a student, a mother. Maybe one day you crave spinach at every meal when the day before just the thought of anything green drove you to the candy isle.<br /><br />A month ago I took a shower, forgetting to bring clean clothes in from my trunk before I got in. Dripping and dazed, I walked across the gravel to my car, feet bare, wrapped in a towel that wasn't mine. I popped the trunk and stared- a mass of colored fabrics lay in a heap, nothing to distinguih the worn from the unworn except memories in the form of snapshots of where I'd been, what I'd done. I took clean underwear from the cardboard box to the right and a new rubber hairband from the box to the left. I grabbed deoderant from the center console, flipflops from the passenger side floor, browning bananas from the back seat. Before getting dressed I lit incense, turned on Paul Cardall, and washed the dishes in the sink. I put away the jars I brought in from my car in a Gevalia box the night before- soynuts, muesli, honey, peanut butter, organic animal crackers, and started a loaf of bread in the bread machine. <br /><br />I want a home. I want to retrieve my underwear from a drawer. I want to make you cake and hot cocoa, tea and cookies, potroast and venison stew. I want to be missed when I'm not at church on Sunday morning. I want to find six people to help me move a free piano into my own place.<br /><br />Place. I want a sense of place, <em>my own place</em>, a sense of purpose, a meaning other than watching numbers grow and checking off adventures. The thoughts of signing a lease, taking a job, moving a bed into a building scare me. The fear is real, but it's smothered in excitement, anticipation of what might happen if I dare to create a place for roots to sink...<br />it's been years; it's been too long.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-16089511959462185572011-08-25T14:44:00.004-04:002011-09-07T15:33:47.781-04:00What I knowThe incense burning on the cookie tray in front of me is promising more refreshment than the melon I balanced between my moccasins and my new account of Truman Capote's life while unlocking the door to Laura's apartment an hour ago. Make a note of this: I have no desire to run, and after a night of staying awake listening to the thunder push its way through the rain and watching the lightening flash on the undersides of my eyelids, I don't have much energy for anything other than mixing coffee grounds with cardamom and water and watching froth form from my place on the counter by the stove. None of it is mine. I put the mug to my lips, taste the strength, taste the heat, and am grateful for the people who say they love me and the ones who don't say a thing. I believe in being swept away but haven't figured out how to let go. When I look at a tree I find I am still and stirred. What I see is amazing, overwhelmingly complex and strong yet beautiful, but what I don't see is that there would be no tree if not for its roots, as wide as the canopy.. and it's been said a billion times before, the analogy is old.. but true, and tough [for me]. Remember when we ate Panera bread donated to and rejected by the homeless shelter around the corner for dinner every night for a week? We heated tea in the microwave hoping the circuit wouldn't pop when we used the toaster at the same time, lest one of us would have to squeeze behind the banquet table and duck into the basement with the faint light of a cell phone. We watched the world from the roof and thought maybe, just maybe there was something we could do that would bring us fulfillment every day for the rest of our lives. We would rent the upstairs apartment just north of the Ben Franklin bridge and convince ourselves we were home. Maybe next year. I still want to know Jesus more than I want anything else. It's frustrating to you, right? It's frustrating to me too. More than anyone knows. I believe in love despite my inability to accept it when you tell me. The love I know heals your body, releases your broken spirit, fills your hidden cracks and corners with patience, understanding, reassurance. The love I know requires little to trust and much to escape from. There is no hesitancy. I'm tired, yes, but this is what I know: mangoes taste better when I eat the skin, and I'm ready to buy moccasin boots. Let the leaves fall. Take me to the mountains and let me move. Lead me to the river and let me flow. <br /><br />And oh soul, arise.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-80924597527116562472011-07-27T17:25:00.013-04:002011-07-30T07:59:37.943-04:00bits (again)pre-run: i poured three inches of coffee into my mug instead of one, added chocolate teddy grahams to my everyday banana, and tied on my merrill pacegloves knowing i'd be running farther than my feet were "ready" to run in them.<br /><br />i left without asking them if i could take the week off. and i wondered what the world would be like if every person tuned into who they are, what they want and what they need <em>daily</em>, knowing that with each rising sun those things might shift completely.<br /><br />i bought vermouth and made myself a martini in a mini wine glass.<br /><br />what does it mean when a day of roasting eggplants in my mothers oven, dicing tomatoes on the cutting board my father made with the knife he sharpened, plucking parsley and basil out of the garden barefoot under the incessant gaze of a descending sun and mixing flour with baking powder with beer and rubbing raw egg into it with my bare hands makes me breathe deeply, realize my spirit is still very much alive, and wonder if life isn't something we have to find after all, but rather something that we only have to release ourselves into and allow ourselves to experience.<br /><br />God and i have some talking to do. i want to know why i experience things in extremes- why those three months in college pushed me to a place where He was all i wanted, all i needed, all i pursued, all i really found. why my appreciation for life came at the expense of giving up almost everything that would appear normal from the perspective of another. why five mile runs aren't enough for me. why a month in the mountains seems the only thing that just might cure this, what has been <em>insatiable</em>, need to be free. i want to know why sometimes i want a garden, a pear tree, bees, naked babies to catch fireflies and butterflies and eat cookie dough with, and sometimes i want to put my life in a backpack, fly to mozambique and spend the rest of my life believing God to provide my food and keep me free from disease while i give orphans homes and prove, to both them and myself, that love is, after all, the only thing that can really change anything, the only thing that matters at all.<br /><br />i believe life is about people. i remember when you told me that, you with your incredible gray bulgarian eyes. you said "for me life is about the people". i looked at you and i swear i really saw you, beyond the eyeliner and the perfect physique and the straight A's, but i wasn't sure i agreed. maria darling, i agree now. life is about the people.<br />and it's knowing who you are outside of what anyone else sees or would want you to be. i believe it's okay to disappoint. there are some addictions that are okay. the sun rises hoping we'll watch it and be pleased, but even when we don't it's just as faithful to bring forth another day.<br /><br />there aren't answers for why her mom died mere weeks before her wedding, why his father died just days before his high school graduation, why you take pills to keep yourself happy. there aren't answers for why you and i work despite the naysayers and "good points".<br /><br />i know this: by now i really think i know when it's real and when it's not. i know when i'm fulfilled, when i'm happy, and the difference between pain and discomfort. i'll wear my new red leather minnetonkas, but i'm still going to keep my paint covered, practically soleless pair in a prime location in my car- there will be times when i'll need them for the comfort of the memories. it's similar to why i let myself into her apartment monday morning, pulled my pink patchwork quilt out of the corner and layed on her couch all afternoon in the skirt the woman in ghana made me two years prior.<br /><br />that being said, sometimes i convince myself i have no idea where the lines are between right and wrong. i can't tell the difference between black and gray and i'm not sure i want to be taught anymore.<br /><br />i want the birds to perch on my piano, the one with the chipped ivory keys, while i play for the flowers and the ferns.<br /><br />(my hair was straight so i floated down the river<br />on my back)Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-72482481708564652182011-06-12T17:19:00.005-04:002011-06-12T21:30:28.602-04:00The wind in the treesMy head is fuzzy beneath my green and yellow wrap, but when I breathe in slowly, deeply, the air pushing off the river fills my lungs, my chest, my fragmented mind, and I believe that it is time to force myseld to find some words. I haven't written anything in days, not even a few sentences in my red moleskin book (thank you, sarah) for my own selfish soul. It's because I've been sick for over a week, right? Because my days have been so full of sunny skies and lengthy runs and paint fumes. <br /><br />Thursday night I dragged out some old journals- from 2008/2009. I was cooly surprised by what I found. I expected to find a girl who could speak of nothing but her all-consuming love for a God she discovered years before, a girl who knew what her dreams were, knew what she wanted, and thought she knew where she was going. A girl restless but satisfied. Without revealing myself word for word, I found instead someone struggling with the collision point between the expected and the desired. She knew God had something profound for her life; she was driven by some unexplainable force to <em>go</em>.. to set aside the common life and attempt to find a sense of being, belonging, total loss and completion in something less-defined, less known, more her own.<br /><br />Three weeks ago I sat around a fire with a girl who knows my soul as well as I do, a boy who three months prior told the girl to tell me to stop running (in life), and another boy whose quiet, substantial eyes led me to scribble my number on a post-it note at a temp assignment. What is now fondly referred to as "the happiness circle" was developed that night. "I'm happy when..".. "---- makes me happy".. <br /><br /><br />A week later two giggly, excitable girls approached myself and the boy with the eyes while walking on the canal.<br />"Can we ask you a question on video for our AP Psychology final project?!" <br />of course.<br /><em>"What makes you happy??"</em><br /><br />What makes you happy. What makes <em></em>me<em></em> happy..? <br />A thousand things. A million things! I've never loved my life as much as I do right now. The people filling my days and weeks, whether in body, in extensive phone conversations, or through thoughtful emails, are some of the very best I've ever had in my life. I have at least three places I can easily call home and half a dozen more that feel like my own. I have no boss, no one to report to or check in with. Hundreds of mountains await me a short trip from my current locations. My student loans are so close to being paid, without a required payment until 2014. My body is allowing me to do things it never could before. There is a place within me that is happier, more calm and at peace than it ever has been.<br /><br />This will not sound nearly as fluid a thought when written, as it has been running in me over the course of a few weeks, yet I have to continue here to say the following:<br />I believe I've found that happiness and fulfillment are not the same thing. If you search your soul, not forgetting to engage your spirit as fully as you are able, and can truly say that you have both simultaneously, I believe you've arrived at something monumental. As for me, I have not. That's not intended to be depressing, at least it's not for me, it's just something I've realized.. something I long to grasp for myself, to attain in this life. <br /><br />And now my fuzzy head is overpowering this incredible 6pm northcountry air..<br />and still, I really just want to climb some stuff. :DKendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-1250502772466665942011-05-26T13:44:00.007-04:002011-07-23T16:30:17.706-04:00I climbed a mountainyesterday. when i got home i tied on my running shoes, and ran. trails, railroad tracks, a small loop past a small farm in a small town.<br />i'm dangerously close to being debt-free. and by 'dangerously' i mean there's no reason i can't call it good and move on to something newer, free-er, less here and more there any one of these lengthening days.<br />my soul is stirring and it wants so very much to be released, but the piano seems insurmountable and the pavement has lost its appeal. <br />when i ran out of the river and into your arms, i was happy. and warm. but what is happy. and even when i know what happy is, is it enough? <br />i wonder just how far back all of this really goes.. does it go back to that summer i fell in love with a house of strangers and found out that judgement can kill and guitars can bring freedom and grand pianos sound better when you're barefoot. <br />or maybe it goes back to the red dirt. oh, that's something.. i know that's something. i can't get over that and i can't go back to that.. not in my mind, not in photographs, not in the natural. but i'm going back to that.<br />or maybe this is really about saying i would go anywhere, do anything, and being driven in the dark to a place i didn't recognize, in a vehicle i'd never been in, to a place i couldn't locate on a map, and having no idea how to find my way out..<br />when i'm on a beach in the woods caged in by metal canoes and people who redefine beauty, i am happy.. but my soul begins to stir, my thoughts get ragged, and i'm driven to the mountains-<br />where all i need is my backpack. and a few weeks, maybe months.. alone. <br /><br />but what i really want is to know:<br />would that really fix it. would that change anything. if i don't know how i got here, how am i to know what it will take to get out.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-7643526290214732352011-05-15T19:29:00.005-04:002011-05-15T20:13:13.342-04:00Love, Kendra.I walked in my parents house at 1130 last night to find a self-addressed envelope containing the following:<br /><br />November 16, 2010<br />Well Kendra- YOU'RE ALIVE! And hopefully you're mere breaths away from being debt-free! And hopefully your Suburu is singing like a champ! And hopefully you're excruciatingly happy on the inside. You and Laura should be closer than ever, your spirit should be more certain of what it wants, needs, feels, is called to.. and you should be on your way toward that, intentionally.<br />But as of right now-<br />As of right now I'm about to graduate from ten months of service that I really wasn't convinced I would make it through. Three days and I no longer have health insurance, no longer have to wear a uniform, no longer make $176 a week- no, every two weeks! No longer drive a government vehicle, wear steel-toe boots, and call an old psych ward "home". In fact in three days I'll be off for the next adventure- a four day roadtrip/excursion with this kid called Man Cub who somehow got ahold of me this last round. I've not understood a lot of it, but there are times, also, when it makes so very much sense and sits so perfectly with my soul. He's good for me and bad for me at the same time. But evenso, I feel it's been good, it's been right.. and somehow it's been beautiful. Is this going to last forever? No. It's not. Do I hope I always know him? Yes. I do. Because he's helped me in so many ways. My confidence has returned, but with it has come a meekness that sometimes makes me feel beautiful. He's shown me, subtly, how I'm special, different, wonderful. He's let me be free.. to really be me. Perhaps I'm learning how to feel, how to let myself feel for <em>me</em>.. how to let someone else make me feel. I've felt the weightiness of the world around me but rarely have I been comfortable letting the world around me feel for me. I have a hard time believing it's love, but I absolutely believe it's positive, worthwhile, meaningful, and good.<br />So by the time I get this letter it will be May. My 285 days of national service will be long past. How will I remember this? Will I remember the painstaking days at Mason Neck? The over-crowded days in the trailer? The heartwretching weeks in Camden? Will I remember what it felt like to be alive and dead at the same time- sitting on our row-house roof, pounding through the trails in Virginia, laying in the grass en route to Lake Charles, LA. Will I remember 4th round as a person or an experience? It was both.<br />I hope I explored the realm of music and the piano and the way they play with my spirit.. alot. Alot.<br />I hope I'm still running. Alot. I hope 18 miles is still an adventure I want, need, and have. I hope my family is still an integral part of my life and that I know and love them even more than I do right now. I hope I'm learning life, love, spirit, body. I hope I'm confident as I am. Kendra, you're more than a body. You're more than a list of what you've done. You're more than a ball of potential. You're someone trying to understand who you are and what that means in the world you've found yourself in. You're broken. I hope you always are. But that's part of what makes you really beautiful.<br />Perhaps you've found where you belong. If not, keep finding yourself.. keep finding your God.. and trust that one day you'll be home.<br />These last ten months have developed me more than changed me. I'm still me, moreso than ever, maybe. I'm not trying to be anything, I just am. And that sure feels good.<br />I hope you're still drinking wine out of coconuts. Promise me you'll always drink wine from coconuts. Promise me you'll always read books that stretch you. Promise me you'll always sleep outside when you can and that no matter the weather, you'll jump in the sea.<br />Remember the Atlantic, and how it loved you. Remember Allen's guitar. Remember the dolphins, the sea-turtles, the dumpster-diving, the way the ocean rose to kiss you goodbye that last morning in Virginia Beach.. before you waved goodbye to the rising sun, and ran away.<br />Life is beautiful. Even when it hurts. Even when it sucks. Remember that. Remember Kate, Liz, Puck, Mary, Rob, Heather, Michelle, Kenny, Josh, Nick, Zais, Buck. Remember this crazy place, these absurd people. <br />And carry on.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-10200890813758429392011-05-08T10:58:00.009-04:002011-05-09T07:02:12.284-04:00Ahem:there should be more searching for the perfect word because<br />the perfect word doesn't exist; a word rises and falls and its not enough because the moment is exquisite and exquisite is a color a weight a sensation, not a word.<br />if i buy an orchid without smelling it did i miss the tropical room the squeaking shopping carts the echo off the stained cement floor or the eyes that lit and burned like a cheap match for 6 seconds at the register. did i miss the moment. for "the voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks... your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. conformity explains nothing." at least that's what emerson said and who's to say he's not a god. but God knows what it means to be alive because he's never been dead.<br />think about that.<br />if i let my face turn brown in the summer the circles forming under my eyes won't be quite as obvious. and if i don't tell you you won't have any way of knowing that the reason my right eye is often smaller than my left is because there are days and weeks and [sometimes] months when i'd rather do anything but sleep. this is how i know life is good:<br />it's okay to run without a watch because the numbers don't matter as much as the way my eyes press the bits of gravel glass dirt and dust together when i forget about the miles in the midst of a new discovery somewhere in the center of my chest. i decide love is not acceptance and acceptance is not love, and yet they co-exist, just as i co-exist- a vessel filled only with spirit and a container with no lid saved solely for the collection of people places and ideas. and if i need to be isolated to pursue one thing then is it really the thing which i should be pursuing. and if there are people who make me feel calm then should i separate them from the people who make me <em>rage</em>. must one's every step be conscious or would an unexpected sleep-walk do us all a bit of good every now and again. but if i wake in the middle of the walk will i panic or die or will i see colors i've never seen before. if there's a chance of color i'll take the risk and i'm believing right now that for color there is always a chance.<br />if you walk into the room and show me a painting and say "see my new poem" i'll look intently but not closely for to analyze is to disect is to rip apart meaning. it wasn't always so for me but i'm quite wise now and so it is so.<br />dear dostoyevsky, you've shown me there is no such thing as writers block; one can always ramble. and if my rambling is fluid enough it becomes a painting and when i paint there are colors never black and white and as long as there is color i know i am alive, and as long as i'm alive, i will live.<br />but someday i'll make an account for all of this, right? one day i'll have to explain why i did what i did and my greatest fear is that i will hang my head as my heart fills will lead and drops past my feet and i'll cover my face with my uncalloused hands and picture in my clear and open mind the glorious life i could have run for.<br />or did.Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-58502190623647172732011-04-22T13:42:00.013-04:002011-04-24T07:29:45.917-04:00someone needs to water the plants.my coffee tastes like soap. i never do quite get all the suds out of the pot. <br /><br />despite my scattered thoughts i feel like writing. i've spent two nights at home in the last two weeks. it's this "unsettled" life that brings peace, settlement to my soul. it's what works for me. i wouldn't have it any other way. <br /><br />coming to rochester was supposed to be my chance to live a normal life, to do normal things and pay my loans off in a normal environment, under normal circumstances. i tried. i have failed, and it's been exquisite.<br /> <br />you look at me and say free-spirit, hippie-sort, earth day every day. it's easy to say those things, isn't it. we don't like to call it this, but we judge. how often it is that we take one glance and write a soul a mind a being before asking any sort of question that would probe a response that might <em>reveal</em> something, anything that might contradict or complicate the person we created. i do it. none of this is new. what's new is this:<br />i don't notice the way i am perceived anymore.<br />i spent last weekend at a monastery in the catskills. on the second day i sat in a room with a circle of writers. i missed lunch because of the need to appease a pressing urge to <em>run</em>. post run: i brought a plastic coffee container of hard-boiled eggs with me. after an hour or so in the same stale chair my legs began to itch for movement. i took to the floor, bringing my eggs with me. i cracked my eggs on the table in front of me, letting the shells drop back into the green container. thinking nothing of this i continued to join in the conversation, only to notice the strangest expressions coming from a few of the gathered. it made me aware. i zoomed out, looking down on the scene from a place beyond the stained white ceiling, and chuckled.<br /><br />when a date becomes wandering through undiscovered forests, pointing out new buds and greens and talking about things i can't remember, i am good. when silence doesn't creep or hang but is assumed and appreciated, i have gotten somewhere.<br /><br />i'm beautiful. did you know that? the things that make me different aren't done to be different, they're done to be me. i'm realizing that right now that's all i know how to be. my issues are still alive, but i'm more at rest than i've ever been before. i've accepted myself. there isn't a soul i'd rather be. there's no spirit i'd rather have. i want to change and grow and become, but i'm doing all those things.<br /><br />gosh it feels good to let go. hah!Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6417815611093972180.post-3037380313931412632011-04-04T12:00:00.018-04:002011-04-13T07:07:23.981-04:00Ode to Shoes<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUMhPPnXaKmeKe6HZa-BcF25kp80HqdZLWlDXVYjN5zgVMoEuniOLdpPnePqmRLmR_fW2wbSFNLhlt5RYqqKfARbgdWzMZZRL0csMyOeOQNwqC0u3IS5fQwLtbsT2zh3lLhm7szxJ80oH/s1600/SDC12681.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591769382605710802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUMhPPnXaKmeKe6HZa-BcF25kp80HqdZLWlDXVYjN5zgVMoEuniOLdpPnePqmRLmR_fW2wbSFNLhlt5RYqqKfARbgdWzMZZRL0csMyOeOQNwqC0u3IS5fQwLtbsT2zh3lLhm7szxJ80oH/s320/SDC12681.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>After 9 months, 1,139 recorded miles and probably at least another 230 or so unrecorded miles, I have retired my recent running shoes. (Trust me, this is blog-worthy.)</div><br /><br /><div>This time last year I challenged myself to run 12 miles in the Appalachian Mountains outside Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. It turned out the trail was only 9, so I ran the 9 and then challenged myself to run 12 in Lorton, Virginia 6 weeks later. I did it, solo, feeling incredibly accomplished. Two days later I ran a 5:53 mile for a fitness test. Two days after that my knee gave out and while in Louisiana for 6 weeks, I didn't run a step.</div><br /><br /><div>Up until this point running had been an escape. When I didn't want to see people, didn't want to be interrupted, when I had too many thoughts and feelings to know what to do with, I ran. In Lorton I often woke up before anyone else and ran 4 or 5 miles before work, worked all day pulling junk out of the woods in the sun, and then ran another 6 to 8 at night. I avoided dinner with my team a number of nights. I escaped the morning breakfast rush, opting rather to do these things on my own, in quiet. My soul was raging and my spirit was confused. Very little made sense to me at this point in my life, so I ran. When I was running I felt quiet. My thoughts made sense, and though I ended in the same place I started, I knew I had gotten somewhere.</div><br /><br /><div>One of my first runs after my 6 week haitus in Louisiana was a "Technical Trail Race" in Pennsylvania. For 6.2 miles I ascended and descended a mountain of rough, rugged terrain. </div><br /><br /><div>Exhausted. Depleted.</div><br /><br /><div>I was hooked.</div><br /><br /><div>The following 6 weeks I woke up almost every morning and ran to the Camden waterfront or into Philadelphia. Crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge I had this intense sense of touching down on ground that held knowledge of things I would never know or understand no matter how long I lived there. </div><br /><br /><div>What I was experiencing in Camden brought a rush of audacity to everything I did, including running. Was it smart to run alone at 6am through the streets of the most dangerous city in the US? No. It wasn't. But I did it. Without a phone, without a knife, without pepper spray. Early morning was the only time Camden felt quiet, but even in the quiet it never felt calm. There was always something stirring, an eeriness to the quiet for me on those mornings that I would step off my porch onto the street, say goodmorning to the man who was always sitting on the porch across the street. He didn't have legs. Every morning he said to me "go go go! run!" And I ran. Strange as it is, the thing that brought me the most peace on those runs was running past the homeless asleep on the benches by the river. It was their world. Did I exist?</div><br /><br /><div>I didn't run for a week after returning to Maryland. I spent the majority of every day for a week in bed, sick for no logical reason other than that for the second time in my life, a city had wrecked me, leaving my happy healthy world in shards.</div><br /><br /><div>And then I met The Guys. </div><br /><br /><div>The guys who released me into the world of adventure running. We met outside building 9H at 7pm and returned 14 miles later, well past dark. I couldn't sleep that night. Or the next after yet another night of running into the darkness, pausing along the water, running roads I had never run into towns I didn't know existed. They ran to explore, to discover, to be together and alone, to be a part of something and untouchable. After three days of this we met the "Trail Dogs" in Delaware at 6am and I ran my first marathon, trails. This would be an entirely separate entry. Suffice it to say I hit a state of bliss, a place of flow, that changed me as both a person and a runner. 3 hours in I knew this was something I was made to do.</div><br /><br /><div>26.2 miles later, soaked, mud-covered, spent and beaming, I was officially a <em>Ratty One.</em></div><br /><br /><div>I spent the next two months running to explore, running to enjoy the company of another person, running to find lakes and rivers, running to breath the air, running to <em>arrive</em>. I ran to the ocean, along the ocean, to see the sun rise and feel it set. I ran to be alive. One day we ran 18 miles in pursuit of a lake we knew had to exist.. no power bars, electrolyte drinks or energy gels. No water. We just ran.</div><br /><br /><div>The body is an incredible thing. When you let it go.</div><br /><br /><div>These days I'm learning to run by feel. I don't have a number of miles I want to run in a week. I'm not training for anything in particular. But every time I run something happens in me. I don't have friends to run with right now, but I'm not bored, and I don't feel alone. Sometimes I find new roads, a trail I didn't see the last time. </div><br /><br /><div>But the most incredible thing is when I hit that point.. the one I barely recognize because it happens in a state of unawares.. but I hit a point of flow, a point where nothing exists but my breathe, my heart beating, the air around me, in me, and the stirrings of my spirit. Sometimes I find myself whispering in a language only God knows. I am an agent of change in a world I don't belong to, a passerby believing life isn't something we make but rather something we find when we finally, finally let go.</div><br /><br /><div><em>To the places I ran through, the people I ran with, the faces that smiled and the hands that waved. To the rivers I crossed, the sand my feet printed, the birds that sang to me, and the roads that truly do live in my memory. To the girl I was, the girl I've become, the girl I'm becoming. And to the shoes that shared it all.</em></div></div>Kendralee*http://www.blogger.com/profile/15790901835708827228noreply@blogger.com4