one of my first loves until me and running broke up

Blowing off steam. Blowing off steam has been my newest favorite pastime. I spent many good years of my life running and swimming and doing it for fun but mostly within the confines of team and invitations and flip turned into a baton hand off until I reached adulthood. I loved sports. I loved the ability to feel freedom in the pounding against my legs as I sped up at the end of every run. My father had taught me this trick that even after a jog you run fast and hard at the end. And believe you me it came in handy in the races of life both competitive or not. The wheels of myself going more quickly and feeling as if they might give out but on the brink of letting go- the freedom of speed- the freedom of myself. That I could get it anytime I needed it. And running. Running became a way to pound out the discomfort of adolescence and the way I spent my afternoons for many years of my life. And it helped that I was good at it. Not the best of the best but good enough to be choose for the relays and to place.

But somewhere in my relationship with running we became distant in our feelings towards one another. I dreaded doing it. And did it. Only for that scholarship. I didn't feel freedom anymore. When I put on those shoes to run- I felt dread. Dread for being awake so early. Dread for not being able sleep in. And dread for the practice I'd have to later that day. Running became a job. And the chore of it sucked the pleasure and flying from my bones and muscles and left was the feeling of contempt. Contempt I had for one of my first loves of my life. We had changed. We both had. So after my final season of my running career, I did what anyone would do or so I thought. I gave up exercise. I took up drinking and partying and smoking and being an undergraduate like everyone else. Reverse psychology on myself didn't work as I planned. Me and running broke up and she didn't come after me when she saw the back of my body sway back and forth surrounded by friends and the smoke of ways to forget her.

I didn't miss her. I didn't care about her. And I kept my relationships with my new and more exciting friends until one day I woke up and realized. Something was missing. The blowing off the steam. Could never be replaced in alcoholic binge drinking that left me more clueless than I began and apologetic and hurting the next day. Smoking could only be cool for so long and soon the honeymoon wore off and I was addicted. Me the athlete addicted to cigarettes. Blowing off the steam- I needed it.

I needed the release and freedom of the movement of my feet faster and harder and longer than I thought I could. I needed the pound of my chest in and out and rattling me to let go and learn again. I needed the sweat pouring down my face and head and limbs with my reddish face to remind me. That I am athlete and the blowing off the steam has always been my freedom. So I didn't call up running. I decided to try something new someone who would give me everything I had before because I was too scared to run. And that is how I found yoga. Yoga became my new love giving me what I needed in a new way. Until. One day I would find myself when I needed it most after a hard day of hearing others pains of life from the adolescents at school that I did the only thing I could and laced my shoes up and ran. Again.

the man in the trench coat with sunglasses branishing a blue bucket and a pint glass

hello all, this is written from the prompt poison when i saw a man walk into a coffee shop that caught my eye. enjoy! and all my thanks as always.

Poison. It was hard to know what was the man's poison as he entered the cafe door first opening the hard wooden framed glass and then the thin screen to step into the room. It was hard to know what the man's poison had been or would be. There he stood as my eyes shoot him a look up and down-the look of junior high in adulthood moves across my face. I am judging him. I am laughing at him. In my head. There stands a man in a full black trench coat that reaches to the end of his calves and sunglasses that never moved from the position on his face-on his nose resting there. In one hand he has an oversized blue bucket and in the other a pint glass. What was this man's poison? What had willed him to dress in all black and bring in his accessories of a bucket and a pint glass? Was he coming in from a long night gone terribly wrong or right? Was he mourning the loss of something? Was he there to fix something? Was he on his way to fight crime branishing a bucket and a pint glass?

This man is why I love this city. You never know what you will see. Weird here is just plan normal and weird anywhere else would never turn a head here. I stare at this man and watch him interact with the barista as if he is wearing the uniform of his sunday best or workout clothes. He acts normal. For this is normal for him.

I can't help but wonder about him so much that when he leaves my inquisitive mind that can't be held still goes to the barista, a man with an unkept beginning of a beard, a v neck shirt with a small hole on the top, and a longish torso and wide shoulders of masculinity. What's with the dude and the bucket and the pint glass? He smiles and his eyes lighten as he throat reverberates in laughter. Oh he comes in that outfit everyday- and he always has that pint glass. That pint glass he stole from us. I try to get it back every time. But even when I take it away from him. He leaves with it. Not sure how. When I'm not looking. It is weird I don't take a plate from a restaurant and bring it back when I return. And the bucket- I offer. He extends- he is always working on something and sometimes its a bucket or something else. He comes in everyday. Everyday in that trench coat and glasses caressing the pint glass.

And that is where asking makes sense. I have no idea what this guy is made of- I have no idea his poison. But what I do know is he brought me and barista and others the free entertainment of uniqueness. And that I like to drink. Daily. With or without a pint glass in hand.

trying on online dating for size

hello all,

thanks so much for your support and your kind words along this journey of writing. i am truly inspired and humbled by the ways you can connect with words. all my thanks, always. this is about me trying online dating on for size. i still haven't left the dressing room.

Trying it on for size. I decided to try it on for size. Not in the I want to buy it and wear it everyday kind of trying on. More like the tentative look at the item. This isn't really my style. I say inside my head. But it looks interesting. Maybe I should just try it on for size.

I decided to try it on for size. Online dating. It's been a week. It's not really my style. I am a more organic-not hippy variety-let things happen kind of lady. But after some deliberating and listening to others who have done it and the fact that the applicants I have seen too lately haven't been very promising. I decided to try it on for size. But before I stepped into the dressing room, before I got into the line to hand my clothes to the attendant, I decided it had to be for fun. It had to be for material. Writing. And if something came out of it great. And if nothing did. It had to be okay too. I am an anticipator kind of woman- I get expectations in my mind so before I tried on this new way of dating and interacting and the creating of the perception of what others would want to see of me. I paused. And when I walked inside the room to try it on. It was just me and the mirror.

I looked at the reflection as I wrote down words, not too many, some funny, others not, just enough not too many to go upon the screen of me. It is hard to know what to tell on this medium. It is so much easy to talk in person. And see another's face as you speak words. To know if they shake their head in unison with you or not. Then the pictures. Which pictures to choose? Fun ones of course. Unique. And of course I had to look good in them. Not the boring typical head shots. No cutting off a significant others arm. 3 I choose. One-when I am dancing and you can't see the details of my face (risky- maybe), one in a wonder woman outfit- top half only- in glasses and one in a tight dress that I found at forever 21 even though I am way past that.

And then the moment of truth when I stood in front of that mirror and pulled down the clothing past my head to see and send. And wait. Trying it on for size is letting me see what is next. And what will happen. Its putting something on that is new to take a risk and say what if I wore this. Out of this room. And surprisingly it was easy. There was attention, and ims, and ask out for dates and messages and it was fun on the rainy afternoon. I found myself laughing at comments or saying oh no out loud at looking at profiles. It was easier then I thought to stand in that mirror and try it on. But now what would be next.

Next. For all that attention. I haven’t made the next step of finalizing anything. Of seeing anyone beyond this room. For after I signed up on that day, I haven't had time, I haven't made time. There might be something about walking out of this room inside to the outside world in this new look to see what happens next which really scares me. Scares me in a way that I keep just looking in the mirror, turning different directions to find the perfect view.

my grandmother still tucks me when she visits me in my dreams

The place where she felt the most comfortable was in a bed. A small twin bed next to another in a room where the cars say a quick hello and goodbye as they travel up and down the street. The comforter was dated probably from the 70's near the time of her birth and there was a starchy feel to it. But underneath-no underneath-there were sheets and blankets touched by fabric softener. The softness of a night light illuminated the room even when she reached adulthood. You need to be able to find the bathroom, her grandmother told her. 


 But the best part of this room, this room away from home was what would happen before she would sleep into the morn. You see she would be tucked in by her grandmother- even when its expiration date of adulthood- had occurred. The talking and the love of warmth of someone tucking you in. I was able to have that gift into my mid 20s. My grandmother, my mother figure since my early days of elementary school, she tucked me in . And never did I feel so loved. Never did I feel so comfortable. I learned from her how to love and care and have strength in caring for someone. You could be both motherly and feminine and have strength to stand up for yourself and others. Her fire became mine. Her height mine as well.

I had forgotten about the feel of her hands against the side of my body pushing the blankets perfectly to hold my body into comfort, into love, until I dreamt of it. The other night, I was again in that guest room, my borrowed room, and there she was tucking me in. I felt the warmth of her as I opened my eyes to daylight and felt her touch my side as the dream fading and I felt as if she was still there, comforting me. Fear started and then relief. Don't be scared. I told myself. For those who have loved us and left us not because they wanted to but because they had to-sometimes come back. Come back. In memories. And in dreams.

And I can't help but think that my most comforting moments of my life were delivered to me again by the woman I love and miss so much. A sign. A message. And comfort that can still extend through time. And distance. And death. Her comfort, her love, her example of strength and care lives and breathes inside of me. The dream is just a reminder of the comfort that lives on beyond the confines of life and death. I can't help but think she visited me to remind me, remind me before my birthday, that I am still comforted by her and she, she stills lives inside of me-in memories and in traits and in sayings. As I look down at my fingers and look at her mother's ring with one stone for each one of her children- my uncle, my aunt, my aunt, my father-and the the cladding ring, I can't help but think she is with me now. She gave me gifts and now she is watching to see what I will do with them.

dreaming big by living in others dreams

thanks for stopping by. i just finished one of my best b-day weeks yet- check out this cake! all my thanks always!

Giving up. Giving up to me has always been a foreign concept. Something I knew existed in some other realm but nothing I had a close relaitonship with. Nothing I had spent much time with. Nothing I had smelt under my beautiful imperfect slightly crooked nose. Nothing I had tasted before inside the pencil line fine lines of lips I have. It was what other people did. For I didn't take no for answer. That had its failure too, the not giving up.

Watching someone give up before your eyes happens regularly for me. It happens mostly with the kids. I see her eyes frustration with her inability to get her multiplication tables as I hold the card in front of her. I don't know it, she says with words and with her eyes and the crinkles around and growing on her face. See she is good at most things. Reading chapter books in the beginning of reading and the weekly pursue of the week. Linguistically she excels but this math thing-it takes work. And she gives up as you lay the cards out to play them. But you the caretaker won't let her give up. She can't. For these printed cards with numerals and lines and xs will not be her only challenge but for right now feels like the biggest she ever will have. We can't be good at everything- I know- but she is still learning. We have to practice. It takes time. And it so easy to give up upon that bump in that road making us have to twist and turn in ways we aren't comfortable.

With him math comes easier but many things do not and it is hard to feel accomplished in the glow of the older sister. He is the detective of the house able to find anything lost. He will find it. He is brave in his choice to stand in front of his classmates and talk about being made fun of. And he dreams of playing on the giants. The major league team. He looks at me with all believing eyes and says, you know all the pros started in little league. And they did. He is right. But his only relationship with a ball, a baseball has been being scared of it. I don't want him to give up. So we practice. First with a tennis ball and without a glove, building his confidence until he has the hard ball descending towards him. The hard baseball comes and he winces, again. Let's try grounders, I say. He travels back and forth. His throw improving and then he throws to an invisible person next to me. And then the hard ball with the catching and the misses, we are in the abyss of misses, until he catches and the excitement in a yelp from me and a glow from him. I don't want him to give up either. For it will be hard. But seeing his little success makes him less scared to go. Go on that field again.

Part of giving up, part of feeling like you should be giving up is something I didn't think I knew- I knew personally. Maybe it was the fear of asking for help. Maybe it was the fear of failure. But now I ask for help. And I do take no for an answer. Sometimes. As I help others not give up- I realize the gift of it- is believing in someone- that they can- even if you believe in ways outside yourself and outside of them. I dream bigger then I should and maybe I want them to too. Dream of flying and major leagues and having 4 professions and a day of just sugar.

I guess the never giving up allows the dreaming to happen. And me not giving up has always meant a yes eventually will happen. I do give up now when I have to. When I know I can't be in two places at once or need to throw money at a problem. But the never giving up stays with me along my side and I use it when I need to. When I need to get somewhere far, where I see someone who needs someone to believe- they can get there too. I am not done dreaming and being inside someone else's dreams allows me to keep dreaming too.

ghost of boyfriend past

hello all-

thanks for stopping by as always and hope you are and have been enjoying this sun that we have had shining on us regularly. written from the prompt stillness after a ghost of boyfriend past sighting at yoga. enjoy.

Stillness. I found myself in stillness as I found my place on the last steps to this new yoga studio. For the man who had visited me in my dream last night someone who I hadn't seen in months and haven't heard from either- stood to the right of me. As I look right, I see the shape of a head looking down that could only be his. Tightly shaved and looking down upon a device. And then his stance opened up ever so slightly with the flip flops I would recognize anywhere. Stillness found me as I spoke to register for the class and my last name fashioned more audibly than needed out loud so he could turn around to see me. But Bueler rolled off my lips and no turning of his head. He does yoga now? The inner dialogue begins to quicken. But stillness of should I move to him. Stillness of what to do next. Stillness I want to feel in yoga class is now my heart pounding in and out and in stillness of uncertainty.

I walk slowly. Purposefully. And walk gently past the man. To see his profile, to see him and ready for what might be next. And as I walk he turns his head to mine and my strong eyes he felt and the familiarity of his head and his shape and his dress are just that-they are not him and the things I thought were his but belong to a different man. As soon as he turns to me-both relief and a twinge of disappointment fall out of me. For as much as I don't like the uncomfortable especially in my yoga time there is a piece of me that would like to see him. Again. In a yoga class at that. And just see him. For a few minutes and feel his warm and kind eyes upon me and this time hope that all is more calm for him. And that the rapid pace of our love affair and his life that reflected that would feel different.

As relief pours out of me more than the disappointment. Stillness becomes me again as I sit down on my mat and remain still. Breathing in and out even though the edge of anticipation is still moving through the rivers of my body to my heart. This heart where it all has lived. Always. I become more still in being here. In this class. And as I move through the breathing and legs up and down, I can't help but notice this man, the man who I thought was someone else, a person away from me on his mat. As I lean into my poses on my right side of my warrior, I study the back side of this man. While breathing of course. In and out. His build- wide and coming down- his muscles toned but not daunting are the same. The dusting of leg hair and arm hair and the hands-the hands-I used to hold , held onto too long are the same too.

I used to study the man, the man I had a relationship with until I knew him in ways we didn't anticipate. And here in yoga stands a man from behind that looks exactly like him. A reminder of what was is breathing and in stillness lives with me. Right now besides me on a yoga mat. Before in a bed where we laid together. But he no longer resides once where he did in this heart. In and out breathing until I am looking down. To the next pose. The reminder of what was lives inside of us and sometimes in stillness we see someone who used to mean so much and now we can see from afar and in the reminder and in the stillness, we breath and move and know that it is time and has been to look forward. In stillness, I do as I push down my hands to the earth.