Conquering the Change Up Strike Out

I played a lot of ball growing up.  I was raised with brothers and a strong affinity for Cubs baseball.  I joined my first team at the age of 7 when I played on the ever famous Glen Ellyn Northerns T ball team in the western suburbs of Chicago.  I can remember the opposing coach bringing the infield in when I came up to bat, well at first anyway.  I was the chubby kid and I was a girl, in fact,the only girl on the team.  I think the perception carried further when they realized my dad was actually the coach.  In hindsight, it was the late70's, and I think they probably felt my dad coaching was the only way one of two girls in the league could play.   It took a couple of at bats for them to realize I could hit the ball like the boys and moving in was probably not necessary.  From there, I would go on to play softball for the next ten years.  Although my childhood obesity would keep me from being the stolen base queen, certainly learning to get my weight behind the ball would lead to the nickname my brothers gave me in junior high,"Big Tomahawk."  To this day, I can almost feel the aluminum bat in my hands as the bat meets the ball in the sweet spot with the perfect ping sending a line drive out to center field.  It was the perfect swing, with the perfect strike and the sweetest reward.

Over time, the pitches would get faster and faster, making that sweet reward a little tougher to come by, but oh when it did.....I suppose that begins to explain my desperation at times to toss my Dad's age old advice,"Amy, stop swinging for the fences."  He was forever telling me to slow down, swing clean, not jerky and take the ball for a ride.  It was this very struggle that often times in high school I would routinely find myself with an 0 and 2 count against one of our league's only 70 mile an hour pitcher.  In my desperation to hit the hardest pitcher in the league, I would find myself swinging for the fences as the ball came hurdling toward me two pitches in a row.  Not to worry.  I was ready for pitch 3.  Square up, elbow up, half swing and focus.  I would watch the pitchers arm fly around fast pitch style under hand, release, and swing.  Wait a minute.  Where was the ball?  It was not even half way to the plate yet.  What the hell just happened?  The change up.  That's what.  A seemingly lightning fast pitch watching the release, but in reality was all smoke and mirrors as the pitch actually was floating in at slow pitch speed perfectly placed over the plate for that third strike long after my swing was over.  It was in these moments where I found myself confused and frustrated with my inability to see it coming and knowing that if I had, and been a wee bit patient I could once again hit the sweet spot and taken that ball deep into the outfield.  Instead, I found myself slinking away from the plate with absolute defeat. 

I suppose as an adult this is what happens with the multifaceted trials of life.  We suddenly see life hurdling at us faster than it ever has before and we spend our time  swinging at it with such ineffective vengeance that we find ourselves on the verge of complete strike out.  Just as we reach that point, another wrinkle, another change, something we were completely unprepared for.  Admittedly, the last 10 months have been like that for me, between the sudden death of my mother and unexpected serious illnesses among the people I love.  Not to mention, I was branching out from Spartan Racing to other actual flat out distance running events this year and somehow could not seem to master endurance running with any sort of proficiency.  I was out of gas quickly, and could not run the speed I thought I should be able to no matter how hard I tried.

With so many challenges all at once, I began to realize that really I spent a lot of time desperately swinging for the fences when the challenges, despite their volume, were no hurdling fast pitches, they were really one large change up that really required something different entirely.  They required extended quiet reflection and patience as I allowed them to change the way I look at things and develop a new normal. 

As I slowed my mind and tried to deal with the issues at hand, I was also advised by a trainer to slow my running paces down.  Although it seemed like such a step backwards, I did it anyway because clearly what I was doing was getting me exactly nowhere.  Plus she is a distance runner and seemed to be reasonably sure I could be one too, at that point in December I was just glad someone was.  Since that time, I have slowly learned how to maneuver my life again and yes, even the running has gotten so much better.  Today, I found myself doing three separate distance challenges.  A ten minute, a five minute and a 2.5 minute.  I found myself calculating from the minute the 3,2,1 countdown began for the first one.  What pace I would start at, when I would increase and what I would end up at.  Little by little I chipped away at each distance.  I did not have any of my usual workout crew there, so I had no need to worry about anyone else.  Just me versus me.

When I finished I realized something.  I had run with patience and control and conquered so much distance at speeds that even surprised me.  I didn't cough or wheeze like I did when I was in junior high as the hecklers laughed.  I didn't walk because I had tried to reach the speed my pride felt I should be at and gone too hard out of the gate. 

I had finally seen the change up life had lobbed at me for what it was, a long trial initially disguised as a 70 mph fast ball, that did not require a swing for the fences hack, instead a simple quiet focus so that I could finally hit the sweet spot, hear the ping and send it for a ride.  Today was finally the day I got to set aside my insecurities about childhood gym class bullying, or my adult insecurities about not being the fastest, and take my 2.2 mile run in those blocks and wear it with pride as it was done with  patience and control, two things I had lost while I was busy swinging for the fences.  I suppose now I better stop referring to myself as a "Spartan Racing Non Distance Runner" and revel in the things I am learning as I progress in endurance running.

I must say, at 85 years old, my dad is still my dad, full of the wisdom only dads have,  and I am thankful for the lessons he has taught me even if sometimes I need a little reminder.  Thanks Dad for always being there to remind me that no matter what life tosses at me, the best is yet to come.

Fighting off Fake Spring, Tulip Style

Well, it is official.  I have been home from vacation for one week today.  Some people like to say,"back to reality."  The truth is,  life's trials did not go away in Florida, they somehow just seemed better under the shade of the palm trees in my favorite pair of flip flops.  I suppose my return to upstate NY was made that much worse when nobody informed the weather that it was, in fact, spring.  In the seven days since I have been home, the kids have needed snow boots, hats and scarves and I don't think the sun actually shines in this area anymore.  Most nights have called for a fire in the fireplace and a pair of Ugg mocassins.  Add in some late shifts, lack of sleep and now I feel reasonably certain any amount of rest I got last week has completely worn off.

I trudged through last week, annoyed every day that I woke up and was no longer at the beach.  Morning after morning I found myself bundling up kids in their winter best much like the scene in "A Christmas Story" where in fact, they may not have been able to totally put their arms down.  All this,  just to get them down the driveway to the bus.  Around the second day of this, I found myself standing at the end of my breezeway looking at the front flower bed waiting for the bus with my 8 year old, when suddenly she said  "Look Mommy.  What is that?"   

There it was.  Thick green leaves poking through the spotty snow.  My tulips.  Here's the thing about me and gardening.  I am not a gardener.  I don't seem to have time to plant, prune, weed or fertilize, and I admittedly know very little about decorative plants.  So, years ago I developed an affinity for bulbs.  Year after year, with my absolute neglect, they rise and look beautiful anyway.  Not this year though.  Looks like our "spring"  may threaten even my low maintenance flower bed plan.  Freaking fantastic.   Yes, this was life away from the beach.  

Since the day I noticed the tulips coming, I have been waiting for them to appear dead.  Punishing snow, wind, freezing temperatures, yet every day they are a little bit bigger.  It is as if the tulip had decided it really didn't matter what was going on around it that should have made it nearly impossible to thrive, it was going to stand tall, show spring who is boss, and not take any crap from mother nature.

It makes me think of how many times we halt our own growth due to things completely out of our control, allowing the chaos of the trials of life to completely stand in our way.  We tend to wait for circumstances to change or for other people to prune us, pick the weeds around us, and spread the proverbial manure in the hopes that these will be the things that make us strong and propel us forward.  The reality is, by immersing ourselves in the chaos, we miss out on the fact that the ability to thrive truly comes from within. By missing this, we miss the amazing opportunity to learn what our potential actually is.  We always have the ability to grow more, be more beautiful and thrive despite what life may throw at us.  We just may forget this from time to time.

Today, it was pouring rain.  I am not at the beach.  I have traded in my flip flops for a down North Face, but every day I can see my emerging tulips not giving up their fight against fake spring and realize sometimes we just need to stop allowing the trials of life's crap to hold us back, and stand tall and grow, because, eventually the pay off will be the beautiful colorful bloom that will accent the entire yard.  Oh, and of further note, as of today, it would appear that the lilies in the other flower bed appear to be just as badass as the tulips.  

Life Lessons from a Very Brazen Turtle

For 20 years, I have been travelling to south Florida this time of year.  Originally, it was because my mom had left chilly Chicago for a much warmer climate and spring break was the time to go for a visit.  She would go on to make another move back to Chicago for a few years and another move back to Florida last year.  Nonetheless, every spring break, no matter where she lived, she managed to meet me where I sit in this moment, on the gulf side of southern Florida.  We had our traditions, eating blackened grouper at the Lazy Flamingo on Sanibel Island, taking a trip to Vanderbilt Beach in Naples where we could eat lunch in our bathing suits at the Ritz Carlton's beachside restaurant,  the obligatory spoiling of the grandchildren and long conversations between her and I where sentences did not need to be finished and probably to an outsider it would seem we were speaking a foreign language.  It is just who we were, her and I. 

I suppose that is why this  year I was not so sure I wanted to come.  Mom died suddenly the last day of  June and I was not certain what being here would be like.  I was unsure if seeing her around every corner would spark grief or comfort.  It turns out it is simply a little bit of both.  One thing of particular significance to her, though, was the plight of the Florida turtles.  You had to know my mom.  She liked to, just like her mother before her, clip articles from the newspaper and carefully scotch tape them together if they appeared on different pages, and fold them neatly into an envelope and mail them to me.  Yes, I realize these are all online and a link could have been sent to me in seconds, and despite being reasonably tech savvy, she preferred to as she said,"see the newsprint on her fingers."  Over the years she sent me all kinds of articles, however since moving back to southern Florida, all the articles she sent were about turtles.  Dozens of articles about regulations and nesting and their protection by the government. Imagine her surprise when a turtle laid eggs in the mulch of her lanai last year.  I do think she felt as though she won the lottery. 

I guess I didn't really understand the fascination.  It's a turtle for God's sake.  It moves slow, it has no personality and hides away from interaction.  Here in Florida there are rules about artificial lights at night, and forbidden retaining walls in nesting areas, and a long laundry list of things that truly made me think they were more of a pain in the ass rather than some noble creature,but it was my mom, and she was always so excited, so I humored her and listened to her stories like any dutiful daughter. 

Fast forward to Monday.  I had taken my two youngest kids to Vanderbilt Beach.  A bitter sweet arrival as this was the last place I visited before catching my plane home in the days after her death last summer.  The beach is different this time of year.  Instead of the quiet crashing of mild gulf waves and the solitude I experienced in the beginning of July, it was crawling with spring breakers.  Hundreds of people towel to towel, umbrella to umbrella.  To be honest, it annoyed me.  I was really hoping for a little solitude and the chance to feel close to my mom in one of her favorite places on earth. 

As the kids and I squeezed into the only available spot we could find I was suddenly face to face with of all things, a turtle.  Not a small turtle either.  What was happening right now?  I have never seen a turtle here before.  Not in 20 years.  He was boldly walking among the sea of humanity as if he owned the place.  Children would touch his shell and he did not retreat.  He clearly had a mission to complete and he was going to do it. 

Suddenly, I began to think about the many times in my life I was bullied.  The many times I was scared. I considered the many times I retreated from life and settled for failure because the fear of the sea of humanity was far greater than my will to overcome it all.  These were the times my mom would find me all safely in my shell and remind me that none of that really mattered.  All I really needed to do is let go of the perceptions, stop giving the power to my fears, and hold my head up and do the scary things even if it meant facing the things I was most afraid of.  Just like this brazen turtle. All at once, the appearance of the turtle on this beach seemed to be a little more than just a coincidence. 

I would go back to Vanderbilt Beach again yesterday.  There was the same turtle, that now one of my children has named "Mikey".  I would smile as they followed him around realizing why the turtles mattered so much to her.  They symbolized who she was and who she believed I could be.  Mom marched to the beat of her own drum and often did the unexpected.  Perhaps she was on to something.....  it is entirely possible, that instead of the introverted, frightened slow poke everyone perceives the turtle to be perhaps they are something different entirely.  I don't think I will ever think about turtles in the same way, but one thing is for sure, this little reminder once again helps me to believe that despite the loss of my Mom, the best is yet to come.