I'm Still Running

You have brains in your head, 

You have feet in your shoes...

You have brains in your shoes, 

Your brains have shoes...

Yes?

It's not a story of muscles or athleticism or triumph. It's a story of running - not to anything or from anything, but around my town, starting out by tying my shoelaces and then running straight out the door.

It’s a story of a lot of thinking and a lot of subsequent learning. It’s a story of commitment, routine, and unintended but highly appreciated stress management.

The story started one year ago this week. It was the end of spring break of my junior year of college and I was feeling a little funky about life. I felt very stationary. I saw people I had known for years and years doing great and big things with their lives and I kept hearing myself think, “I’m still in college.”

I was feeling a little rushed and a little stuck and a little like being still in college was keeping me from doing anything that mattered. I was comparing myself to others and I was listening to myself think, and I know better than to do either of those things, but there I was.

Coincidentally, around that same time, I started running. I didn’t do it with the intention of starting something new or making life more interesting; I had tried several times in my life to become a runner and it had never stuck – until this time. It turned out that being more physically active helped me to feel less mentally erratic and being more mobile with my feet helped me to feel less stationary with my life.

Then, when I felt like my life was sitting still, I went running. And right now, while life feels like it’s moving super fast and doesn’t really care whether or not I’m caught up, I’m still running.

A year isn’t really all that long, and I know that. Yet I’m excited about having run for a year now. I’ve found myself saying things I never thought I’d say, like this: I think I’m in love with running. It is not at all easy, but I look forward to when I get to go run. I miss it when I can’t. I tell people about how great I think it is all the time.  

At first it was awful (I wrote about it here), but I kept going and I’m not quite sure why. I like it more now – not because I like sweating, but because I like thinking.

I like running because my feet are moving and so is my brain. Running helps me think, have theoretical conversations, calm down when I’m so nervous or angry, and have a more realistic perspective on everything I see. I’m thankful for that.

In addition to giving me a chance to think, running has also helped me to learn new and helpful things. I’ve learned to anticipate others’ actions. I run on the sidewalk and anytime I reach an intersection, I watch to see what the drivers near me will do. Are they going to turn? Are they going to keep going straight? Are they waving me on or are they dancing in their car? These are all important things to know.  

I’ve learned how to make hydration happen. It’s highly necessary.  

But the biggest thing I’ve learned is how to get through life. I’ve learned to pace myself, and I’ve learned that running is harder in practice than it is in theory, but that doing one hard thing a lot of times is better than doing no things at all ever.

I’ve learned that ideal runs are smooth but in real life, running means gravel and anthills and being passed by runners who are faster than me. I’ve learned that it’s not all endorphins and energy, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t healthy or productive or peaceful.

I’ve learned that it’s not me who is so great and so active. It’s not me who is keeping my feet moving. I am so often tempted to be so excited and proud of myself for running and moving. But who is moving my muscles? Who is lifting my feet off of the ground? Who is keeping me from falling? It isn’t me. I don’t have that power or that will. It’s the Father, the One who is able to keep me from falling, who is controlling each step.  

I’ve learned to not overthink what’s next. I don’t know what’s around the corner, but I know and can see and can handle what’s right here in front of my feet, so that’s where I will run.

So, it's a story of a lot of sweat. It’s a story that’s still starting. I think it's a pretty good story.

Love,
Lauralicious

On Home

Being in college is a simulation of being a nomad. It's four years of having my belongings constantly spread out in multiple places and of moving those belongings every summer and every fall and sometimes more.

Having all of my things so all over the place makes me a little bit itchy and uncomfortable. I feel like I don't quite have it together, but I really want to have it together. I want to have all of the things that belong to me in one place and I want to hang the pictures and set up everything just how I like it and then I don't want to have to move around or re-settle ever again.

But that's just not realistic. I'm 21 years old. My nomadic years are for sure not yet over, which is mostly okay, although a little scary, but also exciting. And it has me wondering: where is my home base? If everything goes so terribly wrong, where do I go?

The obvious answer is "where the heart is" - as in, "home is where the heart is" - but I think my heart is like a horcrux, spread out all over, and I mostly don't mind that.

I know that this world is not my home - it's not a place to get comfortable, to put up my feet and watch things pass me by. But when all I know is this life and this earth, it's so hard to remember and to know that something greater and more ultimate is coming for my eternity. So although this world isn't where I'll be forever, I don't think it's bad to set up camp here. I think it's okay to have a physical place I can go for respite and to charge me up for the difficulties of living here. I just don't know where or what that place is.

Here's one thing I know: home isn't a feeling. You can't get into your car after a really long and not great day and drive to a feeling. But home doesn't have to always be a house - it could be a place. So there are too many options.

Here are the places I've ever called home, in chronological order -

1. My parents' home - we've lived here since 2001. It holds memories of learning to clean a toilet and learning to have an okay attitude about it, looking for a secret passageway, pretending to be blind out of curiosity, practicing piano (and then forgetting all of it), camping in the backyard, spending hours and hours with my parents so patiently trying to help me make sense of Algebra 1. It's my whole childhood and all of my growing up and now, my retreat from college during the year and from Camp during the summer.

2. My childhood friends' homes - I know I'm at home at these places because I'm expected to help unload the dishwasher when I'm there and I know where they keep the ibuprofen and spare key if I need them. In these homes, we wiggled and giggled, we painted brothers' toenails, we played MonkeyBall, we tried in so many different ways to trick our parents into letting us play longer, we fell asleep watching movies in the living room after long days of playing. These places - others' homes - fostered my social development and taught me how to be a friend.

3. Camp - I didn't start working Camp until I was 17, but it did and still does stretch me in good, hard ways. Camp is the toughest and best thing I've done and continue to do. It's challenge, peace, growth, and even though it's hard and scary, it's comfort. Camp has shown me over and over again that terrifying things will turn out okay and that hiding doesn't make your problems go away (it just makes them more difficult to manage when you come out of hiding). 

What else is there to say?

4. College apartment (Madreland) - I've been lucky to live in the same apartment for three years of college! Which mostly just means that when I move out I have some major cleaning to do. It's guided me into adulthood well (I think). The fire alarm has gone off a lot of times (only once actually due to smoke!), and I've made about seven bajillion batches of cookies in this kitchen.

Many desserts were made here. 

5. Wherever my books are - see here. They are the most tangible and personal and mobile things that are mine. My room is currently covered in books - the bookshelf is bursting with them, the windowsill is lined with them, there are piles next to the bookshelf, next to the windowsill, under the desk, in the closet, next to the trash can, next to the bed, and next to the dresser. The book to floor space ratio is an interesting one. My books are specific to me - where my books are, I am, and I live. They have stayed faithful to me during this nomadic part of life, and I love them for it.

And so my problem is not the worst problem, but it's still kind of a problem - that I have maybe too many homes. I get nervous to call a place home because I don't want to overuse the term or get too attached to a place that I know I can't stay in forever, but I don't want to never call a place home or be comfortable somewhere because I'm holding out.

Life would be simpler if I could be where I am and not worry about where I belong or what constitutes a home, but that's not how I work. I like definitions and clarity and certainty. And so, the question remains: what is home? Can anything be home? Should just anything be worthy of being called a home?

Here's what I've decided: home is fluid, and home is a choice. I can have multiple homes. All of the homes I've had so far have housed (no pun intended!) me during formative times, and that's why I claim them as horcruxes: places my heart will be forever. As I'm moving along and around in the world, I'll have more formative times, and I'll have more places that keep me safe and warm during these times, and I can call those places home, too. I'll just add them to the list.

My heart is so sentimental and so reflective. I will die with a list of locations that I wouldn't have made it through life the same without. It will be a long list, and I think I like that.

Love,
Lauralicious