I’m
sitting before my computer, and just to my left is the calendar hanging on the
wall. Today is Saturday, January 3, 2015. Tomorrow is a full moon. And two days
after that, the calendar simply reads, “Epiphany”. Whoa. Nothing like a little pressure for an otherwise plain, old
Tuesday. I’m sure there’s a religious connection to this particular day, but I
prefer to read it as a sign of optimism (No offence, God or Jesus, or any other
Higher Power that Epiphany might be associated with. We still cool?). I like to
think that on Tuesday there might be that singular, glorious moment of clarity
where suddenly the neurons and synapses fire just right and you find yourself with vehement purpose and fervent
determination. When suddenly you’re like, “Game ON!” and good luck to anyone who dare stand in the way of your
locomotive-ish fortitude.
For
me, my Tuesday, January 6th came before Tuesday, January 6th.
And I can’t say that it really came with the luster and intensity that I expect
from this Tuesday. For me, it came more gradually and, if we’re being honest
here, more from a place of unresolved issues, grievances with the universe, and
a bitter opposition to fear of failure. So, probably not what Tuesday
“Epiphany” is all about, but whatever gets you out the door, right?
So,
here’s the deal, I’m going to start writing more. I’m going to start writing my
thoughts. Maybe not all of my
thoughts, because I’m not sure writing about how I wish I could finally find out how squishy Big Orange Cat’s tummy really is, is
really blog worthy, but who knows? If it plagues me during the day, maybe
it is. And maybe I will write about it. The point is, I’m often encouraged to
write more. Partly because I enjoy it, but mostly it makes me less cantankerous,
and it helps me work things out in my head. But,
I often think people don’t want to read what I have to write. Well, (epiphany
alert!) I can still write it. No one has
to read it. Boom! That just happened. So, I’m gonna write. And I have two
blogs. Well, no more. I first had a blog to detail my running, which I love and
adore and will often be the focus of many of my entries (Wanna see my old
posts? Aces. Go here: www.jmo9179.blogspot.com).
But, I’m multidimensional and think and breathe more than just running (i.e. Is
Big Orange Cat’s tummy just a little squishy, or a lot?). So, it’s all going to
go here. Sometimes it will be light and airy, sometimes it might be dark and
twisty. Sometimes, it will be a total swing-and-a-miss…and I’m okay with all of that. And, what makes it easy to be okay with all that, perhaps, is that I have about
six people that actually read my blog (Hi Mom!), so it’s not like I’m blowing
minds and erupting a civil war somewhere (You’re welcome, fragile and oppressive
government systems). Also? Because what I have to say matters, if only to me. So, that’s the first thing.
Secondly,
I really hated 2014. It was fraught
stress, anxiety, injury, and worst of all, the most tragic heartbreak that you
can imagine (for more, read preceding blog entitled Goodbye, Ronnie). I normally loathe the New Year holiday because I
would take no pleasure in celebrating the passing of a time that I wasn’t
really ready to end. But this year, while I still went to bed several hours
before the turning of the New Year, I could not be more jubilant for 2014 to
hit the road and 2015 to begin (Two Thousand Fifteen Shades of, “Hey!” LOL. No? Okay). The other thing
about 2014, and all the other years for that matter was fear. Yes, good ‘ole
fear. Fear of failure. Fear of humiliation. Fear of failed expectations. I am
not, nor have ever been, someone who takes risks. Everything is safe and
calculated. I like to be in control. I do
not like the element of surprise. I do not go big, because I much prefer to
go home. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem except when there’s this tiny,
little voice inside of you that starts to get louder and more obtrusive when
you have this untapped and untested potential that you just know is dying to get out. I usually mute
it. Or ignore it. But after just barely surviving 2014, I’ve decided to let the
voice roar and go for a big, scary, oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-vomit,
goal. In 2015, I’m going to attempt to qualify for the mother of all marathons:
The Boston Marathon. That means I need to shave more than 15 minutes off my
current marathon PR (personal record). That means I need to risk crashing and
burning. That means I might end up crying in the fetal position at mile 23. That means I might fail.
“Might” being the operative word here. And since it’s nothing more than
operative, why the heck not? Anyone who has ever known me knows that when I get
my mind set on something, I’m kind of like a starving jackal who sees food just
across the swollen river. I’ll nervously, relentlessly, and hysterically pace
the water’s edge until I find a way to cross it and reach the goal. I’m super appealing
that way. Very likeable. So, yeah. Boston, I’m coming. It might not be as soon
as I’d like, but I’m coming. And this is my public declaration of it.
So,
really, just the two points I’d like to make for Tuesday Epiphany. That, and I think
I’ll start being a little more honest with myself and the six of you who read
my blog, a little less apologetic for the things that do not require or
necessitate apology, and a little more risky for the things that do not cause
actual physical or financial risk. Big goals are good. If your goal doesn’t’
scare you, then dream bigger, dang it. We have just this one life and if 2014
taught me anything, it’s that it can be over much sooner than perhaps you’d
wish it to be.
Keep
it real, friends. More later.
