The Summer of 1999 (memoirs from a little girl)

Dirt seems to breath in sunshine and breath out dead leaves. If you hold it close enough, you can almost hear it exhaling. I liked the way it felt, the wet graininess that bubbled and burped and sank between my toes and fingers, or the dry stuff, even if it made my eyes hurt when I accidentally rubbed them with my dirty hands. I used to regret that I could not eat it, or if I did, suffer the ear drumming, gritty texture grinding between my teeth.

The summer before the millennia, 1999, my mom and dad were building their new home from scratch in the ex-corn fields of West Michigan. My aunts and uncles came for a family reunion to help build at one point, I think. All I remember is that dirt was everywhere. My cousin Meg got our van stuck in the long muddy driveway, I think it took about three uncles and my dad and thirty minutes to get her out.

Meg was pretty old, she could already drive, but our other cousins, Jake and Joe, were almost my age (just a couple years older). They both played baseball, not professionally of course, they weren't old enough yet, only about eleven and nine, but they played on a team all year, even during the summer. I guess they didn't get a lot of vacation time, so the fact that they were spending it with us was pretty special. Anyway, the black and gold dirt was everywhere that summer. When I looked at our yard, it reminded me of a marble cake or a desert wasteland with no weeds. Naturally, mud fights were the most exhilarating thing in the world. My two cousins and my older siblings and I scrambled across the packed, never-ending source of ammunition. I never really thought about how Jake and Joe were such good baseball players, and they could throw about ten times better than me on a bad day. I guess I just never bothered to make the connection. Although, one day in particular, I do remember hiding behind a dune half scared out of my mind. If I'm honest with you, sometimes the war became pretty serious and somehow everyone else knew what team they were on and I was just the little fifth one, chucking at whoever came close enough. Except Nate, I wouldn’t ever throw dirt at Nate. I stuck my head just over the tip of the dune.

“Danae, get down.” Nate whispered, chest flat on the ground, dirt in hand.

“Danae…”

I turned to look, but it was too late. Smack. I tasted it before I felt it. The hardest piece of dirt in the whole world smeared me across my right cheek and exploded in my mouth. Now, I was not a baby, I knew that if I was going to get myself involved in a war, I was going to get hit. But no one considers how the biggest, baddest, rock-hard chunk of black dirt, bigger than your whole fist, might just nail you clear across your entire jawbone and shatter in a million tiny pieces halfway down your throat. I didn't understand what was happening as the impact threw me down. I felt my body being spun sideways as I skidded face first in dirt. Blood and drool and mud came out like vomit. I started howling like a hyena and holding the mess of red and black dirt in my hands and looking at my cousin like I was going to murder him.

There wasn’t any more mud wars after that.

That same summer my brother Nate and I would swim for hours in the pond that giant cranes had dug up behind our unfinished house. I think that’s where all the dirt came from, one single pond. Mom was somewhere else, I don’t remember where, maybe she was working, and dad was busy building. Nate and I didn’t think to bring our bathing suits, so we just took off all of our clothes except our underwear and slid down the mountains of sand piled around the little pond. We slid down the sand dunes until our underwear turned golden and we had sand stuck so far up our butt holes I was sure we’d be pooping dirt for weeks.

When we got tired of swimming, we buried each other under that pond dirt, all but the head, and then get up and laugh until our guts hurt at the soil clinging to our skin and hair. We made beds and chairs and tables and even ink. We wrote on dead leaves or the bottom of the windsurfer that dad picked up for us somewhere. That windsurfer was the most beautiful massive slate of hard white plastic I ever laid eyes on. It didn't have a sail anymore, so it looked like a big sad flat shark. I was terrified of it, partly because of its truly shark-likeness, and partly because it had a sharp little piece of metal sticking up at one end. When you swim in a pond for hours your skin becomes soft and noodly, so a tiny hook of metal like that drives in deep. It didn’t stop us for taking that board out to the middle of the little pond and running off it, though. Sometimes we jumped, but mostly we just ran off because our momentum and the weight of our bodies sent the board shooting in the opposite direction so whoever was still sitting there would get spun out pretty fast.

I lived for the moment right before I hit the water, when I catapulted myself in the air, arms and legs spread out like Tarzan, and I could see the water right beneath me. I hit it like a torpedo, smack, and the world closed up and I shut my eyes tight and let the darkness poor into me. I could only take it for two seconds, then I started feeling panicky and pulled my way upward. I could never tell just how soon the surface would hit, sometimes it took a while, but I’d burst through the darkness and spit out the pond water and wipe it from my eyes and spread the hair from my face. Before I set foot on the sleek white plastic, before I even knew where I had landed, I already wanted to jump in again.

  ..

dm

The Great Wall

“Do you want to listen with me?” I asked Christina, handing her one of my earbuds.

“Thanks.” She said, sticking it into her ear.

On the train into the mountains, we stared silently out the window together. For me, traveling was like sliding into the murk of a dream. Every vehicle I rode brought me further away from any reality I ever knew. I loved listening to music when I could look out the window, headed somewhere fast. The melody flowed into the landscape passing by, the combination of music and scenery hit the electric synapses in my brain with startling clarity. I could be living in a movie; life seemed that perfect behind the glass, passing the world by at ninety miles per hour.  

The sky was unnaturally blue, even to my American standards. Beijing, only hours before, had been one of the most highly polluted cities in the world; the pollution index recorded levels going off the charts.

“Wind must’ve took it.” Dr. Jay had commented absently about the pollution when we walked out of our hotel that morning, gasping at the clear sky. Apparently, this was something like his thirtieth semester teaching American students in China. He was completely over touring the Great Wall.  

The rolling, mountainous greenery and the shrill, melancholic overtones of Bon Iver’s “Holocene” set me into a thoughtful trance. The train car was strangely spacious, two people could easily fit in my seat and I could barely touch the seat in front of me even with my legs fully extended. A tour guide had been erupting in long, harshly projected Chinese phrases for the past thirty minutes. I had tried to block her out with my music almost immediately. Mandarin was maddening; trying to learn it was like trying to fit my brain through a pin hole. I never thought I was ethnocentric until I left the country. Now, I suddenly loved everything Americans did, speaking in English especially. Through the window, the landscape seemed to eventually roll in on itself, repeating over and over again. My eyelids became heavy. I dozed off.

I could still remember the morning my plane was going to take off to Hong Kong, commencing my semester studying with the China Studies Program (CSP). I had laid in my bed, curled up in the fetal position, remaining motionless for a long time. My eyes were wide open, staring out the perfectly square window above me. I tried to hold onto the nostalgia of the familiar, weathered siding layering the back porch and the thin tree branches, waving in the breeze. I didn’t want to get up. Getting up commenced my journey to what was then only a concept--a design of my imagination. Everything felt so safe in that bed; it felt like my whole world.

Now, it seemed the past three months in China were leading up to this day. Finally we were going to see it. I liked the Terracotta Warriors in Xi’an, as well as the Summer Palace (it even snowed that day), and we all pretended to be interested in the Temple of Heaven and Forbidden Kingdom. In reality, however, they were the vegetables. The Great Wall was the dessert. I had laced up my Mizunos that morning. It wasn’t enough simply to walk along one of the greatest Medieval wonders of the world; I planned to run. I heard muffled excited noises behind me. We were getting closer. I opened my eyes in time to catch my first glimpse. The structure was falling apart in places, vines grew up between the cracks. The dull stone bricks were crumbly, like feta cheese. Christina had fallen asleep. I shook her and pointed out the window. We looked with our faces pressed against the glass like two little kids on Christmas day. When the train finally stopped, hundreds of people unloaded and started hiking up the road to buy tickets. The Wall continued snaking over the mountains into the horizon.     

We had finished the first third of our classes. Now, we were in the middle of the history of China, literally. The course itself was crashing us into over two thousand years of Chinese development. Leading up to our travels into the cities of Xi’an, Beijing, and Shanghai, we learned about the stages of culture shock. There are five:

1) elation

2) frustration

3) rationalization

4) alienation

5) accommodation

As I walked up to one of the tourists’ entrances to the Great Wall, shooting off my camera like a machine gun, I thought perhaps I was still in the elation stage. Or, perhaps my fellow American classmates cushioned the brunt of culture shock for me, defusing the stages’ intensity. More than likely, I was still going through the counter-cultural frustrations. Earlier that week, I had gone to the Silk Market in Beijing with a group of several students from CSP. Walking up and down the isles of merchandise felt overwhelming. The building was like a Western mall, except more stimulating. Clothes and bags of every shape and color imaginable were strung all the way to the ceiling. Shoes were everywhere, encompassing entire sections of the floor. One complete level of the building was dedicated to electronics, another to jewelry. I wasn’t planning on buying anything, yet it seemed impossible to ignore the venders. I found their vigor and determination for a sale a bit unsettling.

“Hello, lady, want to buy this? Come take a look, low price for you.”

A little white and Blue dress had caught my attention at one of the booths; it looked just my niece's size. I made eye contact with the woman selling the dress. She seemed young, maybe just a little older than me.

“Duo xiao qian?” I asked, self-conscious of my poorly spoken Mandarin.

She spoke to me in English, “This? Nine hundred and ninety.”

I shook my head. It was a ridiculous price.

“My company is very prestigious company in China. You come feel the quality of my clothes, come, come, feel the quality...”

I ended up walking away. The interaction with the lady was not unlike several others I had in Xi’an. She talked rhythmically, even in her broken English. Her words flowed smoothly, as if reciting a work of poetry. Yet behind her eyes I sensed subdued hostility. Even though I was dressed like a scrub (worn jeans and a baggy sweatshirt) I was foreign and to her I equalled potential profit, nothing more. I didn’t like the Silk Market. The majority of the consumers there were foreigners. Tall, Western middle-aged men dressed in perfectly pressed black suit coats and pants with shiny black shoes sauntered around in small groups. Western women of all shapes and sizes lined the tables, trying on the jewelry, bargaining for the best price, annoyed by the loud, dogged temperament of the vendors. The vendors themselves were relentless, leaning over their tables of merchandise, beckoning me over with the same forced, poetic diction, the same subtle aversion. I didn’t know who the consumers were. I felt like we were all trying to consume each other.

We were now touring a section of the Wall in Badaling, just outside of Beijing. Taking in the clean air and the dragon-like structure twisting and oscillating through the mountain peaks, I had fallen in love with China again. From our crash course in Chinese history, I learned that this section was built during the Ming Dynasty. According to the information plack nailed to the entrance, it was the first section of the wall to open to tourists in 1957. Exhilarated by the crisp air, I left my coat and camera with the group and started running. The wall was more like a twenty-five foot high, five thousand five hundred mile-long erratic staircase. Even with the twenty foot breadth from one side of the wall to the other, I found it hard to navigate around people. The uneven layers of stairs eventually began messing with my head, particularly going downhill, as it was difficult to judge depth. Some of the tourists laughed and pointed as I passed them, my face flushed and lungs heaving. As I looked around me at the never-ending trail of bricks and mortar disappearing into the distance, and the panorama of green mountains bubbling up along the horizon like a wrinkled bed sheet, I felt an overwhelming feeling larger than life. I was a stranger in a strange place. I looked into the faces of the people as I passed them. I understood I was the strange one, not them. In the States I was a stranger among familiar people. I knew the strangers there; I knew their language and their culture. On a very basic level, we understand each other. Here, on the Wall, not only were the faces unfamiliar, but the people themselves. I was gripped by their mystery. I thought the people were beautiful, even as they glanced over at me, showing a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and annoyance.  

I couldn’t know it then, but my feelings on the Wall of transcendence and benevolence toward humankind were underdeveloped. A couple weeks after touring Beijing, I did an internship with the local newspaper in Xiamen, the city where the university hosted the CSP students. Being forced to attend and write on campus and community events, I discovered more about life in Xiamen. The editor asked me to attended a Toastmasters meeting: a learning-by-doing workshop where participants make speeches to practice English. Later, while typing up the article, I learned the toastmasters enrollment was going 280,000 members strong and the individuals improve their English speaking and leadership skills by attending one of the 13,500 clubs in 116 countries that make up a global network of meeting locations. The goal of these meetings was primarily to becoming better English speakers. The weekly events encompassed impromptu talks and feedback afterwards on the quality of grammar use and pronunciation. I was welcomed into the group, and even asked to give a personal introduction. It was pointed out more than once how privileged I was to be a native English speaker. The Toastmaster or MC of the evening was Brian Huang: a dynamic, clean shaven, bald enthusiast in his mid-thirties. To begin the “warm up,” he bounced to the front of the room and wrote on the board: Heart Followers Create. He turned around dramatically and asked several participants in the group to stand and explain a positive experience when they created an opportunity by “following their heart,” including a twenty-something year-old girl, born outside the Fujian province, who confessed going against her parents’ will and moving to the city of Xiamen. Her confession was praised with nodding heads and vigorous clapping.

Eventually, Brian made eye-contact with me, “Please, you look like you have something to share with us, too.”

I stood up slowly. The eruption of clapping from the previous speech had died down so suddenly the room felt unnaturally quiet, especially considering the number of people present. “I followed my heart by…coming here…to China, to Xiamen.” I said, feeling childish. “I’ve been able to see and experience so many things, enjoying so many opportunities I never would’ve had in the States.” My statement was greeted with silence. I laughed nervously, pulling my thoughts together (I couldn’t imagine doing it in a second language), “I’ve met so many great people here, and although I was scared to leave at first, especially because I can’t speak Chinese, I’m glad I did. I’m just…really glad. Thanks.” I sat down quickly as the clapping began. I felt completely at a loss. I couldn’t express why I wanted to come to China.

A couple days before I left China for good, Brian invited me to dinner at a Western hotel. When I asked him what he meant by “Western,” He explained, “It’s a buffet style, with every kind of Western food.” I had been on a steady, four-month-long diet of fried broccoli and white rice with tofu. I couldn’t say no. Amanda, another newspaper intern, was invited too. Brian picked us up in one of the nicest, newest cars I had ever seen; it was a Rolls Royce I think. The inside was lined with black leather and smelled like wet chemicals straight from the assembly line. When we arrived at the hotel, I couldn’t find the door handle to let myself out.

“Where’s the...?” I trailed off, studying the car door and running my hands over its side in vain.

“It is underneath.” Brian indicated with his hand. I located the latch and laughed as I swung the door open, nearly ramming it into another 2013 Rolls Royce parked next to us.

I was tragically underdressed. Brian wore a cotton navy blue button-up with pressed black slacks and shiny black shoes. Amanda wore dress pants too, and an elegant off-white blouse. I hadn’t packed nice clothes and my budget didn’t permit much shopping. I wore my defaulted plain shirt and jeans. The lobby of the hotel looked like a royal ballroom, complete with a hanging crystal chandelier (at least twelve feet in diameter). We ascended the enormous spiral staircase to the food.  

As we entered the restaurant, my senses were vanquished by the smells and the futuristic design of the food displayed literally everywhere. Going from the adventurous, hole-in-the-wall food escapades I had made in the past, I felt like I had just skipped ahead a century. I passed the salad bar and went straight to the meat. I found whole, twelve ounce slabs of sirloin steak, cooked medium rare, simmering in little pools of blood and A1 sauce, and grilled boneless chicken breasts sauteed in oily garlic marinade, sprinkled with italian seasoning. It was real A1 sauce. There was pizza, bread, and seafood of every shape and color imaginable displayed on clear plastic shelving units like pieces in a modern art exhibit. Brian seemed nervous. He pulled out the chair for me, and bowed his head just slightly. His courtesy made me uncomfortable; the Japanese bow, not the Chinese. When we all had our plates of food and sat at the table, Brian leaned in eagerly and asked more questions about America than I had answers. Somehow the whole night felt off, starting with the drive in the Rolls Royce, to walking into the incredible hotel with the best food I could remember tasting. He was successfully impressing me, but throughout the night I couldn’t help feeling saddened and confused by it. In the same way I viewed the people on the Great Wall as a grand, mysterious, Chinese ideal, Brian saw me through a Hollywood lense, an Americanized paragon. It seemed to me the Open Door Policy had admitted more than international trade. China was searching for something. I could see the pursuit in the attitudes of its people, in Brian’s face as he sat across from me at the table, even in his preference of a knife and fork over chopsticks. He was so eager to hear my thoughts and gain insight about my country. Perhaps rapid development and success had become China’s religion, I thought. Brian wasn’t the only one who seemed to cling to the hope of prosperity seen in the West. The American Dream was quickly becoming China’s.

After forty-five minutes of running up and down the Great Wall’s never-ending staircase, I was ready to stop. I rejoined the group at a section of the Wall. We laugh, smiled, and took so many pictures. We asked to have our picture taken with random strangers and other strangers asked to have their picture taken with us. Then, after a few hours, we were ready to leave. Just that quickly, the day was over. Sitting in the train packed with people (somehow there was more people on the way back) felt terribly anticlimactic. This was the place that, during its construction, was called “the longest cemetery on earth” because so many people died building it. At one time, family members of those who died working on the Great Wall would carry a coffin on top of which was a caged white rooster. The rooster's crowing was supposed to keep the spirit of the dead person awake until they crossed the Wall; otherwise, the family feared the spirit would escape and wander forever along the Wall. Reportedly, it cost the lives of more than one million people. It was common to hear that the mortar used to bind the stones was made from human bones and that men are buried within the Great Wall to make it stronger. Even though it was later proven the mortar was actually made from rice flour—and no bones, human or otherwise, have ever been found in the Wall—the fact that the rumor continues to spread is a detail worth acknowledging. There was so much history, so much death and suffering poured into the construction of the lengthy historical monument, and, within a few hour’s time, we were completely over it. We had consumed it, like any other marketable product the country had to offer, and were ready to move on to the next thing.

As the train steadily gained speed, I stared out the window again, catching the last glimpses of the crumbling bricks and mortar. I put my earphones back in and allowed the rolling landscape to mesmerize my senses into the melodies of my playlist again. It already felt like I was worlds away from the Great Wall. The feeling after leaving the ancient ruins wasn’t what I was expecting. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly small. Back in the States, I used to think I was complicated; I was just riddled with layers of finely woven mystery. In China, I felt none of that. In the train, everyone was tired and solitary, plugged up with their own thoughts and music devices. The view of the Great Wall eventually disappeared behind us. I continued staring out the window, along with everyone else.

..

In honor of the Best Semester crew of the China Studies Program, Spring 2013

Miss you guys.

{dm}

Fife Lake: What I'm Secretly Glad I Still Remember

“This can’t be it. Is this it?” Dad was leaning over the steering wheel, straining for a better view through the windshield. My siblings were huddled in the back seats of the 1994 Dodge Ram pickup truck, respectfully silent, appalled. Mom, in the front passenger’s side with a stack of papers and books she had been reading, was checking the address. We were up north. We were near the coast of one of Michigan’s Great Lakes. We were near, but not on Lake Michigan. Fife Lake, to be accurate, wasn’t a lake at all. We had a pond in our backyard comparable to this.

“This is really the place?” Corrine asked after the long silence, sensing the devastating reality in the situation. Her crossed arms and cold, glossy-eyed expression were wordlessly judging the incompetence responsible for our circumstances.

“Let me see that address.” Dad said. He took the papers from Mom and got out of the truck. As soon as the door slammed shut we all talked at once.

“Is this the place, Mom?”

“Isn’t it next door?”

“Look at how nice and big those cabins are, all that space…” It was true, the cabins to the right of us were beautiful. Fat, perfectly round logs were notched and stacked, holding their natural coloring, with a luminous glaze-like finish. The doors were a warm, rustic green, with dainty grills on the windowpanes and curtains and even real shudders that opened and closed.

“I want to stay there, Mom.”

My mother, acknowledging our concerns, did her best to affirm that in fact we had booked the lovely cottages next door, that the “tiny,” “dumpy,” “ugly,” “poopy” shacks (that we so adamantly described) on this lot were not our home for the next week. Yet it was apparent she was as unsure as we were.  

Without a word, Dad came back. He turned the truck on and put it in reverse.

“This isn’t the place is it, Dad?” Corrine finally burst out.

My father, in an air of optimism and a hint indifference, cheerfully replied, “Yep. This is it.” He waited a moment to let the news sink in. “We’re over there on the left.”

We all immediately leaned over to the left side of the truck to see where Dad was pointing. Confirming our greatest fears, there sat the depleted remains of a cabin. It was hideous. Someone had painted it the color of vomit, an attempt to hide the decay of the logs underneath. Camping had never been a success for my family, and it wasn’t for lack of trying either. The first summer my dad brought home the pop-up camper straight off the lot commenced the beginning of some pretty terrible memories for all of us.

I can still remember the first morning I woke up in that trailer. We were at a state park in Michigan (we only went camping in Michigan). It had rained the night before, which wasn’t surprising. Dad used to joke that if there was ever severe drought in the area, we all needed to pile in the truck and go camping for the weekend. “One-hundred percent chance of rain!” He’d say, shaking his head. The night before, I had fallen asleep to the sound of rain pounding on our plastic roof. I felt afraid, and justifiably so. Either the plastic amplified the noise of the water to an incredible magnitude (which it did), or we were in the midst of a deluge (which we probably were). Either way, our poor shetland sheepdog had been left outside in its kennel. In the middle of the night I awoke to panic-stricken yelping. In a stroke of sleep-induced genius, my dad unfastened his side of the canvas-covered mattress to get outside and save the dog from the puddle of water filling up in its cage. Water that had piled on the top of the canvas flooded the camper. I still remember the image of my dad, soaked through, standing out in the mud with a flashlight in his whitey-tighties, fastening the side of the canvas back together. When I woke up, my pillow was wet and I could almost taste the stench of wet dog. Along with the pillow, my sleeping bag was damp, together with the pull-out mattress and the sides of the canvas. My clothes and hair clung to my body, sticking with this unfamiliar, all-intrusive wet adhesive. And it was still raining. In fact, it rained the entire weekend. I don’t remember how many games of Uno and Sorry we played, but it was enough to make us all a little more irritable.

Pop-up trailer camping and driving long distances were not the warmest of memories my family shared together, which was why we were all excited to try a rustic log cabin experience not too far from home. Mom was on the emailing list for the “Home School Connections,” a huge group of homeschoolers who collaborated together, buying and selling curriculum, organizing special events, and doing their best to provide social environments for their children. Mom came across a brochure advertising a log cabin in a quaint town in northern Michigan boasting “the best forth in the north.” The brochure had one photo of a bedroom and a brief description of the cabin and surrounding area. Mom showed Dad, contacted the lady, and the rest is history. Before the drive up, my parents did their best to pump us up for the occasion.

“We’re going on vacation!” Mom exclaimed to my two-year-old little sister, Brielle, lifting her up in the air.

“I want to go on vacation!” Brielle declared enthusiastically.

“Vacation!” We’d all echo together in the car. “Ye-e-eah! We’re going on vacation! We’re going on vacation!”

And here we were, appraising for the first time our one-stop vacation destination. Being eleven years old had taught me a lot about the world; pieces of adult reality were beginning to fit together like the underdeveloped neurons in my brain. I was starting to own my consciousness (for better or worse), and I was old enough to know we had just gotten incredibly ripped off.

After Dad put the truck in park, I got out with the rest of my family started unloading (we had packed an incredible amount of stuff). Dad unlocked the cabin’s front door and we followed him in. The first thing to hit me was the smell. Nathan dropped his duffle bag to cover his nose and I immediately followed suit. The stink was not of something dead or rotting, but of something living and growing: the unmistakable fetor of mildew. Even apart from the smell, the kitchen lacked any nostalgic, antiquated impression of bygone days. Not only was it old, it was old and cheap. The paint filming the walls looked like urine, the cupboards were made from tin pot thin plywood. Some of the hinges on the doors were loose, others were gone completely. There was an obvious bow in one corner of the ceiling with rodent feces on the floor directly beneath it. A collapsible design of dented metal served as the table, with only two chairs to match. 

In an attempt to ease the reality of the situation, Mom mechanically continued unloading our things, commenting about the details on the website, how the cabin wasn’t like anything she anticipated, and how, well, the quilt in the bedroom really was actually quite lovely. Unhindered by our half-joking (yet actually completely serious) complaints of the ridiculous condition of the cabin, Brielle wandered around the living room with her blanket over her nose stating repeatedly, “I want to go on vacation…” We all politely avoided her, making momentary eye contact with each other, sadly chuckling about the irony of her declaration. None of us had the heart to tell her that’s exactly where we were.

..

“That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour...That's why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember." - Ted Hughes 

{dm}

Purging Doubts of Affection: To My Sister, Corrine

“It’s not like your life is over, Danae. You can still do fun things when you’re married…” My sister, Corrine, was in the passenger seat next to me, sipping tea through a thermos. Sighing, I turned off the engine in my Honda minivan. Somehow the conversation always turned back to marriage. Corrine loved weddings and the planning process, down to choosing the brand of nail polish for the bridesmaids’ toes. 

It was after ten o’clock at night; we were sitting in Target’s new parking lot. Silently, we watched a young group of kids pile into a rusted van parked across from us and drive away.

“I actually enjoy it…” 

I nodded and listened to her break it down for me. For some reason, I was gripping the steering wheel and continued staring out the windshield. A couple days before, Corrine had flown in from Texas with her three children. I loved those kids, I really did. But from the moment they landed in Grand Rapids, Michigan, my head hadn’t stopped spinning. 

Maelyn, her middle child, was two years old. The precious synapses in her little brain were incapable of drawing certain rational conclusions at such an age. I thought of that morning when I found her standing on the couch downstairs. A movie was playing. Her older brother Brayden was drawn in, completely blocking out the noise of his sister exhausting her lung capacity and destroying her vocal cords in sincere, adamant vexation. Cautiously, I had approached her. 

“Mae Mae, what’s wrong?”

The crying stopped and her head turned around sharply; her tear smeared face looked up at me and instantly contorted in disappointment. Two seconds later, without breaking eye contact, she tilted her head back, filled her lungs, and in a single, drawn out breath, wailed, “Ma-a-a-a-a-a-ma-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!”

There was no arguing with this vocal powerhouse. The closer I moved in, the louder she demanded for “Mama.” Her steady eye contact in the midst of her screaming began to unsettle my conscience. Those little blue eyes were burning through me; I began feeling at fault for not being her mother. Corrine, unfortunately, was in the shower. Feeling uncomfortable and half-consciously ashamed of myself, I looked down at the floor, avoiding my niece's raging scrutiny. Rejected, embarrassed (and embarrassed for being embarrassed), and not knowing what else to do, I had slipped back upstairs and left her bawling.      

“You’re cut out for marriage, Danae, really, you are. You might not think so, but I think you’d love it.” Corrine said, taking another sip of tea. I nodded slowly. 

“Yeah…yeah, I hope so.” 

Like most things, I didn’t exactly agree with her. For me, marriage was in direct correlation with children; I knew I couldn’t expect to get married and not have kids. It puzzled me that I had such trouble with them; not just my sister’s children, but kids in general. I thought of my own childhood. I clearly remembered what it was like to be little. Sitting in the minivan brought back specific memories; namely, my severe motion sickness. I was incredibly self-conscious and ashamed of puking as a child, so I’d deny I needed to until the last possible moment. By that time, it would be too late and I’d end up vomiting all over the car. 

On one trip when I actually told Mom I wasn’t feeling well, I was put in the front passenger seat next to Dad. I hadn’t experienced sitting in the front before, and, despite my stomach, I relished the grownup feeling. I didn’t want to admit I was going to vomit though, and I certainly wasn’t about to ask Dad to pull over. In a last ditch effort, I thrust my head out the open window and let the chunks fly. Unfortunately, I hadn’t considered the rules of centripetal force (the reality of what happens to puke when it is hurled out of a vehicle going seventy miles per hour). My dad smiled and waved to the slack-jawed locals at the closest gas station when we pulled in with evidence of my breakfast literally encompassing the entire right side of our van. 

No matter how many times Mom told me to give her a heads up, it just came up spewing so devastatingly that I’d forget all about the empty Cool-Whip dish I was supposed to use. Naturally, both of my siblings were appalled by the milky chunks of my lunch dripping down the back of Mom’s seat, but the memories scarred Corrine the deepest. Once, when we pulled into a rest stop after I lost a particularly large lunch, she flung herself out of the van and took off down the parking lot for several yards. She huddled down on a parking curb and pulled the drawstrings of her hood so tightly around her head I couldn’t see her face, only one tiny black hole. She was crying, rocking back and forth, and refused to get back in the car for hours. 

“Marriage is worth it.” Corrine finally added, picking at a crusty, dried up stain on her jeans. “It’s nice always having someone there, no matter where you are, to just be with.” 

“It’s such a commitment though, people grow and change…weren’t you scared?” 

“Of getting married, you mean?”

“Yeah, wasn’t it kind of daunting knowing you’d be with Drew forever?” 

“Well…” Corrine looked out the passenger window at a Target employee gathering up the grocery carts and watched as he sent them rattling down the pavement. “I didn’t think about it too much. I knew I loved Drew, I loved spending time with him. I guess I lucked out. He’s great and I think I love him a little more every year.” It wasn’t the first time she had shared this, and every time it still amazed me. 

..

Corrine was a perpetual mystery. When we were children, I knew she wasn’t my mother, she lacked that warm, nurturing security mothers often instill; and, being six years older, she wasn’t my friend either. Or rather, I wasn’t hers. I was the child who had a history of throwing up in the car, crying too often, demanding our mother’s attention, and taking precious objects without asking. I was very aware of the fact that I annoyed her. As a result, Corrine and I kept to the periphery of each other’s lives. In an email last spring, Corrine expressed some remorse over this: 

I…often regret I wasn't a more supportive, involved older sister to you. That is honestly one of my life's greatest regrets. Why I didn't spend more time playing with you or was more invested in our sisterhood is something I often lament over. 

I can’t remember life without my sister; her presence and influence were constant whether I liked it or not; often, I didn’t. My earliest memory of her was in the dining room of our old house. I was being chased around the dining room table, filled with genuine terror. Corrine’s heavy footsteps made the plates in the china cabinet rattle. She was somewhere behind me (I couldn’t quite see over the tabletop), I’d glance over my shoulder and imagine her eyes gleaming wildly; she really did have a safety pin in hand as she beckoned, “Come here, Danae! Come here! I’m going to pierce your ears…!” 

Even recently, I was aware I still had trouble relating to her and the things she talked about  and she could say the same about me. She was a mother living with her husband in Texas, I was single and still in college. We’d talk, but I often felt inadequate to further the conversation. I didn’t have three kids or a mother-in-law. Nevertheless, somewhere in the everyday monotony of our shared lives, within the different stages, terse actions, passive aggressive comments, and the small talk, something had changed us, together, at the same time.  

A few years ago, for the week of Brayden’s first birthday, Corrine brought him to visit the family in Michigan. Incidentally, he caught the flu. One morning when I was home with her and Brayden, I heard a lot of commotion downstairs. I was well aware Brayden felt sick; in fact, I knew exactly what had happened. I went to survey the damage. Brayden was in his highchair, crying adamantly. His big round eyes were stretched even wider than usual, as if in amazement. Confirming my suspicions, coated over his face, his arms, his hands, his clothes, and flowing out onto the floor several feet in front of him, was the aftermath of a curdled, powerfully projected breakfast. Stunned into silence, I looked around for his mother. I found her sitting on the floor behind the counter, leaning up against the stove, her head between her knees. She had been crying. 

“It’s just…too much.” She said, wiping her eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, a crouched down next to her. 

“I can take dirty diapers, I can take snotty noses and sleepless nights, I can take just about anything, but this...this is too much.” 

I wasn’t sure what to say. I suspected I was the cause of this; I had an ironic sensation of indirectly fulfilling a childhood fantasy. After years of dormancy, my long forgotten endeavor to bring my sister to her wit’s end had come to fruition vicariously through her own son. Those long trips and my motion sickness had stuck with her all this time. I might have found the situation legitimately funny if she didn’t look so defeated. I felt I didn’t have the right to pat her on the back and say, “Aw, it could be worse…” I resorted to offering to take care of the mess. I assured her that no, really, it was fine, I didn’t mind. In reality I didn’t. I half-consciously felt responsible anyway. I might not fully grasp the realities of parenthood, but I knew how much getting sick devastated Corrine; in fact, I took full credit for it. As I knelt down, meticulously wiping up my nephew’s detonation of blueberries and oatmeal, I wondered in what other ways I had affected my older sister. 

Corrine and I have made sincere efforts to develop a relationship. We went out for frozen yogurt and Target shopping sprees during our short visits. Once, we even took the kids with us; but only once. We opted not to try again for a couple of years. Also, that past spring when I left the country for five months, we occasionally corresponded through emails. While I loved her emails, I found communicating so formally difficult. This was something we had never done before. Still, she was very honest; more honest, perhaps, than she’d ever been. When I asked her about life, she shared:

The truth of the matter is life is hard. You hear me talk about my kids so much because they are my life. They take up all of my energy, time, and attention. Often I think I get into "mom mode" when I don't think too much about what's going on with me and just how I can meet the kids needs…I just wonder how to enjoy this time of the kids lives when it feels like every day we're in survival mode.   

I thought I understood what she meant. Memories such as Brayden puking across the kitchen floor came to mind, and the last time we all went to Target together. And after Brayden and Maelyn, Trennan had arrived, too. I barely knew these little ones. Every time we visited they’d shamelessly stare at my face, as if beholding it for the first time. Brayden was four, Maelyn was two, and Trennan hadn’t celebrated a birthday yet. Maybe I didn’t know exactly what Corrine felt, but I had witnessed the absorbing momentum of all three that very morning in the course of ten minutes. I had a pretty good idea. And while I had never experienced motherhood personally, I did have a mother. What I knew of mothering was also directly correlated to her. During our childhood, our mother’s words written in her journal weren’t so different from my sister’s: 

I feel like I am treading water--vigorously--and just able to keep my nose out of the water. I feel like just one hesitation will cause me to go under and I wonder if I would ever surface again. 

Corrine knew what that felt like on any given day; and she wasn’t the only one. My grandma had raised not three, but four children. My mom talked about her often. Apparently, our Aunt Dana suffered from car sickness, too; even worse than I did. When Aunt Dana was a little girl, she got sick in the car almost every time she rode. 

Pure Italian blood coursed through my grandma’s veins, and with it, her Catholic faith. Consequently, my mom’s older siblings attended a Catholic school throughout their childhood. Once, while my grandma was driving with Dana in the back seat, she observed two nuns walking along the side of the road; they were dressed head to toe in their brilliantly white habits. My grandma felt convicted to offer them a ride. With no small amount of apprehension, she pulled the car over and invited the the nuns in. The women obliged and oohed and awed over Dana, complimenting grandma as they squeezed into the car. My grandma smiled nervously, almost painfully, and shifted the car into drive. One of the nuns had taken Dana on her lap and was bouncing her up and down, swing her little arms, and chatting animatedly. Horror stricken, eyes bulging, my grandma leaned over, clutched the steering wheel with both hands, and prayed desperately. She all but lost hope in Dana; it was one thing to ride in a car, and quite another the ride in a car and bounce around like a bobblehead. Grandma could already hear her daughter’s inevitable heaving and coughing, could already smell the aftermath; she had already imagined the horrified expressions as the nuns looked down at their white gowns stained in the coagulated gleam of warm, half-digested nosh. The catastrophe never happened, though. Much to my grandmother’s relief (and my shrewd disappointment), the nuns arrived at their destination, thanked grandma for the ride, bade Dana goodbye, and left unscathed. My grandmother remembered the story fondly, my mom said she would share it often. 

As a kid, I always liked my Aunt Dana (I also remember throwing up several times on the ride to her house in Springfield, Illinois). She looked and sounded too much like my mom, though; it troubled me. Their bone structure was so similar it was uncanny, especially in their hands. I remember I once followed Aunt Dana around for nearly five minutes with my hand in hers before I realized she wasn’t actually who I thought she was. I was a bit more consciously aware around her after that. More recently, I found a journal entry my mom wrote years ago: 

Perhaps someday you will wonder why I called you Danae. I thought it was a pretty name--but more than that it had DANA in it--my sister’s name. She was a special influence on my life. She taught me so many things...May you too be an encouragement to others my precious one. 

Although Maelyn hadn’t taken my namesake, I wondered if Corrine could say such a thing to her about me. Or, if I did ever have a daughter, would I write that about Corrine?  

..

“Maybe I could just elope,” I suggested, “that way, I wouldn’t have to worry about a wedding and spending so much money.” By this time, Corrine and I had rolled the windows down in the minivan. The evening summer air was still warm and sticky. I tugged at the collar of my shirt, trying to cool down. We had gone from talking about marriage, to husbands, to men in general, to our dad, brother, mother, her children, our childhood, and now we were back on marriage. I had brought up eloping before, mainly because I knew how much it bothered her. Corrine was more excited about my wedding than I was. She had been collecting images and links to wedding sites online for the past year despite my apprehension towards weddings and practical reasons not to want one. Nevertheless, I suppose the occasion is worth celebrating. Before Mom’s wedding day, my grandma wrote in a letter: 

Another phase is in store for you…plans and dreams for the future...where did the time go…I guess I have done alright but I sometimes wonder if I didn’t miss out on something… You are all so very important to Dad and I but we know we have to let go and there is a big new life before you that we know you will experience.

I could relate to my grandmother. When Corrine asked me to stand as the maid of honor in her wedding, she asked so matter-of-factly, it was hardly a question. Naturally, I would be the maid of honor even though I wasn’t yet sixteen and lacked the desire to become particularly involved. During the bachelorette party and rehearsal dinner (which she planned), and while getting our hair done and putting on our dresses, I was mechanical; none of it felt real. When the time finally came, I could only step back and observe. 

The ceremony was in our grandparents’ church. The photographer was there, overt, snapping shots with noticeable poise. Mom had already been led into the sanctuary. She joined Drew’s mother at the altar and finally managed to light the union candles with a dubious lighter. The bridesmaids and groomsmen were paired and lined up, ready to walk in. Daylight filtered through the stained glass windows, contouring the bodies of the people--friends and family from all over the country. Music was playing, a flute and piano rang out the same Pachelbel Canon in D my mother walked to. Two by two, the party made its way down the aisle in long, rhythmic steps. Drew waited. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back and both eyes were locked on those back doors. For two seconds, everything went silent. Then, the organ suddenly exploded into the first dramatic chords of “Here Comes the Bride.” Like a single tidal wave, everyone stood up in the pews and turned to look. She appeared, arm in arm with Dad.   

Where did the time go…

Drew wasn’t smiling. His lips were pressed, the corners of his mouth turned up just slightly. His eyes were soft and so intent on hers. He stood incredibly still as he watched her approach. Subtle hints of deep understanding reflected in his face. He was carrying her down the aisle with his eyes. Corrine hadn’t stopped smiling since she walked in. Tucking her chin down just slightly, she looked up at him, childlike excitement dancing in her eyes. She was flawless, down to the last bobby pin placed in her hair. As he took her hand, the impact of this new reality finally hit me. As she repeat her wedding vows to him, suddenly, without warning, I felt like crying. It wasn’t because she was the saint of my childhood or my savior and role model. She was anything but perfect. But we had shared a lifetime.

I sometimes wonder if I didn’t miss out on something…

 My existence up to that point had been a communal one, largely involving her. We would always be sisters, but now in a different way. We wouldn’t struggle through reality anymore. We would have windows…short visits, sweet emails. Corrine and I had shared a collective life. At the time it was just life; those were merely days of the monotony I never knew would end. Yet, somehow…they had. 

…we know we have to let go and there is a big new life before you.

..

Maybe I would get married some day; maybe I still couldn’t possibly wrap my head around the idea. As I turned the key in the ignition and listened to the hum of the minivan, I took one more good look at my sister. She seemed so timeless, no different than that first day she ran down the aisle as Mrs. Helder. Even after three kids, her body retained its small, strong shape. Her blonde hair was longer, thinner, maybe; but her blue eyes never lost that undeniable childlikeness. 

“Funny story,” she said, “the other night I had a dream I wasn’t even your maid of honor...or, matron, or whatever.” 

I laughed. 

“No, really! I seriously dreamed about it.” 

I wanted to say something witty and reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come. “No,” I mumbled good-naturedly, “of course you’ll be the matron of honor.” It had struck me to know such a concern was in her subconscious. I thought about all the planning she had already been doing, and how legitimately excited she was talking about it.

“By that time, Maelyn will probably even get to be a bridesmaid.” I added. She chuckled, not finding it very funny. 

It was getting late. I turned on the headlights, backed the van out of the parking lot, and drove us down the familiar roads leading home. Incidentally, we began talking about her children. 

..  

The other day, in the journal Mom wrote to me, I found these entries: 

May 8, 1993 - Today you clung to your sister Corrine when I tried to take you from her arms and you cried. It warms my heart to see that you love her already. My prayer is that you’ll always be close. My dear sister Dana and I have a special friendship, this is what I hope for you…  

June 14, 2000 - Your sister…loves you…and though you get into squabbles I can tell you are precious to each other. 

..

Running: Why You Should Love It

Dedicated to Faith Gunderson, a teammate and friend

Faith stretched her legs restlessly, doing a few last-minute stride outs. At the starting line, she joined the other runners wearing their tiny colorful spandex uniforms. They were just as jittery and anxious to get started as she was, but they all tried to look intimidating, pretending to be oblivious to each other, and acting as runners do by shaking, bouncing, stretching, and swinging their arms and legs around. Finally, an anonymous man holding a megaphone announced something, stepped in the side of the track about twenty-five meters ahead of them, raised both arms, and fired the gun. The clock started. She needed to shave off less than a second to reach a qualifying time for the NAIA Championships that year. Two laps around the track, just over two minutes, was all she had. The 800 meter race is brutal punishment on the body, arguably the brutalest. It is just long enough to be considered middle distance, but only just. The distance is more like a sprint: a long, drawn out sprint refined only by raw, gritty endurance.

You might not understand how people can consider running more than merely keeping the body in continual motion for miles (or laps) on end. Yet since the dawn of its popularity in the 1970s, running has inspired a movement that hasn’t stopped sweeping across America. Some seem to truly love going out and abusing their bodies. As you watch them facing the elements from the comfort of your living room window or from behind your windshield wipers, you write them off as clinically insane. In all honesty, you’re right; the art of running (because truly, it is an art) requires a certain level of insanity.

Sometimes waking up is difficult. It was Monday morning; I was groggy and reluctant to peel the sheets off myself, even though my whole body felt incredibly warm from the summer heat wave engulfing my room and the entire west side of Michigan. There was only one driving force that brought me to my feet: hunger. I found my way to the kitchen and began preparing my breakfast. Someone had left two teaspoons of milk in the carton; I sadly watched it drip onto my cereal. Grumbling, I added lukewarm water from the tap. When breakfast was over, I knew what was coming: the two hour countdown began. I sighed, dwelling on how clean I felt and how ridiculously hot it was outside. I seriously considered not going, reminding myself of all the other things I wanted to do. Still, unless I died or severed my limbs before 9:00 am, I knew I would be running.

“You have a gift, I believe in you, you can do this.” Coach Hoffer looked into Faith’s eyes with kind, unshaken confidence. This was her senior year in high school; she was at the UP finals and getting ready to break the record in the 800. Mandy Long, the current record holder, had gone on to the Olympic trials. Faith wondered, What would it feel like to break the record of someone who tried out for the Olympics? She held onto his words. At the starting line, his voice seemed to defend her mind against the barrage of mental weakness and doubt. She didn’t beat the record that day, but she won the race. That race showed her how far she had come from where she had started. After the race was over, she ran and threw her arms around Coach Hoffer. He had believed in her, he had seen her potential.

Originally, running was primarily a competitive sport practiced only on the collegiate or professional level. Non-competitive running didn’t boom in the U.S. until after athletic celebrities like Steve Prefontaine and Joan Benoit broke through the media’s national consciousness. Groups like “Road Runner’s Club of America” were organized, magazines like Sports Illustrated began publishing studies vouching for the physical and psychological benefits of jogging, and runners like William Bowerman and James Fixx began writing and publishing on their own experiences with the rediscovered form of physical recreation. Part of the beauty of running is in its simplicity and accessibility; some would claim you don’t even need shoes.

My body naturally prefers the minimal amount of discomfort and exertion yet my mind is always going, constantly reeling thoughts around in my head, and never sleeping; therefore, when I run, two worlds—my body and mind—clash. Running is actually a lot like sleeping. Often, especially as a child, I was resistant to sleep; I thought there were so many better, more exciting or useful things to be done. Yet every night I am forced to submit myself to physical rest; my body demands it and there are brutal consequences if I don’t. While I do not need daily intentional physical excursion to survive, the same mentality holds true with my body and running. It’s why running is growing in popularity; being active is the great equalizer to an otherwise quite sedentary life. Sleeping is commonly connected to the predominant paradox of “death” and “rebirth” and so should running since, fundamentally, no one actually loves to run, yet it does transform the body, like sleep. When I go out and run, I forget about what I think I want.

Faith felt a burst of excitement rush through her as she looked up into the woman’s face. “Feed the horses?” She repeated, “You’re going to let me feed the horses?” She had just finished her first lesson at Tree Vine’s Equestrian Stables.

Vicki nodded her head. “Yeah, come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Trying to hide her excitement, Faith followed the woman into the stable and observed her take armfuls of hay and pile them into the feeding troughs. “Your turn! You can feed Bruce.” Vicki indicated to the bale of hay by the door. Faith gathered the biggest stack she could hold and followed Vicki into the next stall, being mindful of the enormous horse, and got on tip-toe to throw the hay in the feeder. After the pile landed successfully, Faith reminded herself to stop tip-toeing and walk out of the stall on her heels. It was hard to remember to walk on her heels.  

She had been introduced to therapeutic horseback riding as a means to loosen her calves. Riding appropriately would force Faith to push all of her weight down on the bottoms of her feet. This, along with her mother’s constant reminders to “walk flat-footed,” eventually would moderate her stride. Faith was born with cerebral palsy, a condition caused by a lack of oxygen to the brain at birth, resulting in disabilitated muscle coordination known as spastic paralysis. There are different levels of severity within cerebral palsy; some are completely unable to walk, while others may have subtly reduced range of motion at various joints in their bodies due to muscle stiffness, or minor challenges in muscle coordination in specific areas. Faith’s disorder affected her legs. As a child, her tight calves forced her onto her toes. The doctors told her parents she would be able to walk, but would never run well. For Faith, a lifetime walking on her tip-toes wasn’t a death sentence. Running didn’t have to be a monumental aspect of her life; nevertheless, since she was young, her parents constantly reinforced that her “disability” should never define her. As a result, she wasn’t afraid to pursue running. She loved being able to do something so many people told her she couldn’t.

The running movement in the U.S. moved Americans to more than merely a new recreational activity. The movement granted the average individual the ability to run for the sheer enjoyment of it. Running is a daily reminder of how undeniably human we are, stuck in the blunt reality of each inauspicious moment, connected to the earth and its seasons, and responsive to (albeit resistant of) self-induced suffering. Running is in fact a gift that is not equally distributed. The psychological demand is just as ominous as the physical, which is why running takes skill (no matter what other athletes will tell you) and a lot of practice. If you've ever heard the phrase "I just love to run" you might’ve felt dismayed. In reality, there doesn’t seem to be anything magical, exhilarating, or life-changing about going out on the road, especially at first. Actually, it has great potential to bore, exhaust, and/or frustrate you, which is why it is understandable that you might have given up on it a long time ago. Beyond boredom and frustration, there could be other reasons you stopped; running is time consuming and it requires access to safe routes and a healthy body. Yet, if you don’t see the value in commitmenting to it daily, if you can’t see past the act of running and realize what running has the potential to become, and without an outside obligation to keep you going, you will undeniably always find a reason not to lace up your shoes.

Two hours later, after much more deliberation, I double-knotted my Mizunos and walked out the front door, embracing the sun’s overbearing, ever-present radiation. I squinted from the sudden brightness and crossed my arms over my chest as I walked down the driveway, resisting the urge to turn on my heels and go back inside. My bitter resistance dissolved moments after my first strides. Despite the soaring temperatures, this was glorious. I could smell freshly cut grass and heard the drone of a lawnmower, provoking moments from my memory I could only equate with summertime and childhood. The neighbor’s horses were in the front yard and looked up from their grazing, studying me curiously. Dogs barked in the distance and the birds were calling to each other and flying overhead. The further I went into my run, the more vivid my surroundings became, and the more responsive and aware I was of my body.

The landscape evened out into hundreds of corn rows, broken up by occasional driveways leading to small farmhouses planted on wide open yards. I was sweating and began to feel the burn in my legs and lungs, but it was good to be a part of the sweeping panorama of bright sky and the dusty ground around me. When I checked my watch after mile two, I reminded myself it was supposed to be an easy run, yet couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed by my pace (it was a bit slow). I felt myself picking up speed, focusing on the horizon. I imagined I was already there, somewhere in the distance; now I was just waiting for my body to catch up. As I ran, I created my own opposition. Essentially, I was the opposition, the competition, which fundamentally distinguishes running from other sports. I had to know when to compete, when to challenge myself, and when to hold back.

Everything experienced in the non-competitive running is magnified to overwhelming proportions in collegiate competition. As Faith come around the bend to the straight away, color fringed her face; she was determined, fixed on the line as her arms and legs propelled her forward in long, smooth strides. She crossed the line just a hair’s breadth behind the runner from Azusa Pacific. She had smoked the qualifying time by four seconds. Giddy excitement stirred up tears in her eyes as her whole team ran to embrace her. She felt the warm breath and bodies of her teammates all around, forgetting everyone else in on the track. With tears brimming, she hugged everyone at once. Coach Bippes put on his sunglasses, hiding the fact he was also moved to tears. Before the high had completely settled down, she threw off her spikes and ran into the stands towards her parents. When she reached them, she looked into their faces, tears still flooding her face. She hugged her mom and continued crying. After a moment, her mom pulled back and asked, “Are you upset because you came in second?” Faith shook her head, “No, I’m crying because I ran so well!”

At seven years old, she ran her first race. It was 5k memorial run; Faith placed first and set the record in her age group. From that time on, running became a driving force in her life. She ran cross country in middle school and discovered track in high school. Initially, Faith wasn’t planning on running in college. She was looking into Michigan State to become a veterinarian, but a change in heart and circumstances brought her to Spring Arbor University, where she competed on the track and cross country course. Currently, Faith is ranked second in the top ten list of fastest girls to race the 800 in Spring Arbor University’s history. Over her collegiate career, she has qualified in multiple events in every indoor and outdoor NAIA Championship since her freshman year.

As a runner, I have found there are psychological stages runners go through, including the apathy and/or resentment toward it that you can probably relate with. The fundamental question to ask is why you wanted to run in the first place. Did you want to lose weight or get back in shape? These reasons are valid, but perhaps limited. You will reach a point when physical fitness or appearance just aren’t enough to get you out the door anymore; too often it feels much more preferable to remain still and comfortable inside than face the physical excursion that comes with running outside in the elements. You’ll reach a point when you’ll have to be honest with yourself: do you really even want to start running or is it a popular idea you felt drawn to? Running cannot be a fashionable trend; trends die too quickly. A love for running begins with the hope of improving not only the body, but the mind…for the mystical “runner’s high” we all hear rumors of.

As I was moving, it felt like there was kinetic energy in my brain propelling me forward. I didn't have to think about moving forward as much as I had to think about stopping. My body accepted the motion and continued to be in motion until I decided to stop. It was my mind, not my body, that was carrying me; not merely my mind, but a subconscious part of my mind I had stopped controlling. During every run like this, I was reminded that I was not in absolute control; I was forced to acknowledge not only my body’s power and weakness, but my rudimentary connection with it. Eventually, as the “kinetic energy” in my brain continued moving my body, my mind was freed up and entered into a dream-like state where I forgot where I was and what I was doing.

The secret to staying motivated to run, and maybe even loving it, actually has very little to do with the act of running. In essence, it is the perception of yourself in relation to running that must change. Running cannot be about you. It cannot be about how fast you can go, or how long, or what it makes you feel. Running must be about daily practice, about understanding the value of self-denial before and during each run, which is similar to the nightly submission of sleep: from “death” to “rebirth.” The value of running is in its consistency. When you consistently practice running, it becomes an art. This is why you should love running: you should love it precisely because, in all rationality, you should not love it. You should want to run because everyone (including yourself) tells you that you can’t. It is insanity, it is self-inflicted suffering, and this is what makes it so rewarding. There is a voice inside your head that will get in your way (that already has gotten in your way) even before you take your first step out the door, saying, "I'm too tired," or "I don’t want to," or "I can’t." That’s good. Recognize that voice, then go ahead and run anyway. During the run your brain begins demanding that you stop, that you give up, that truly you just can’t do it. This is your great disabler, your very real disability: you are afraid to see past your love for comfort; you are intimidated by the true meaning of bodily discipline. Yet if you’re honest with yourself, you love that you can making that voice squeal. It gives you no small sense of satisfaction to see that you in fact revel in the submission, that it frees you rather than binds you, into a higher state of being. You would begin to see that that voice is a lower, baseless shadow of who you really are, who you actually have the potential to become.

In the distance, I could see my little white and yellow mailboxes poking out of the side of the road. As I closed in the space, I gradually continued gaining speed, reaching the driveway in nearly an all-out sprint. Passing the mailboxes, I stopped immediately, experiencing an infiltration of calmness and clarity as I slowly walked back up my driveway; the Zen-like “one with the body” and “one with nature” awareness was coursing steadily through my brain. The name for this feeling was prescribed in the 1970s: endorphins. Endorphins are chemicals released from the brain after exercise, connected to positive mood change. The more endorphins released by the brain, the more euphoric the experience, known as the “runner’s high.” For the majority of running history, the “high” remained only a hypothesis based on runners’ claims. Finally, in 2008, advancements in neuroscience enabled researchers in Germany to report that the hypothesis is true. Their publication in the journal Cerebral Cortex confirms that a flood of endorphins is triggered in the brain after a run. Yet somehow, even getting high (or the propensity to get high) on running is often not enough motivation to keep me going out and doing it. After I graduate from college, without an obligation to a team or sponsor, as a non-competitive runner, I will soon face questions: why continue running? For what purpose am I dedicating so much time and to what end?

Faith sat down on a bale of hay next to the little girl’s wheelchair. The stable had been swept clean and the familiar smell of hay and horse manure hung over them. Savannah’s eyes averted Faith’s, yet she couldn’t hold back the admiration in her voice, “Some day I will run, just like you.” Savannah eyes glanced at Faith for a moment, then quickly back at the floor. “I want to be just like you.”

Faith nodded. She studied Savannah a moment, who had turned her head disjointedly to face the door, waiting for her mother to arrive. The girl’s body remained motionless, buckled in her wheelchair. Her head rested on the cushioned back of the seat; the rubber and metal wheels and black leather seat contrasted sharply with the old, weathered wood and bits of straw surrounding her. In between college semesters, Faith had returned to work at the therapeutic horseback riding camp she had taken lessons from when she was young. She had just finished helping Savanna with a riding lesson. The little eight-year-old’s cerebral palsy affect her muscle coordination from her neck down, and getting on and off the horse proved difficult.

“Savanna,” Faith waited until the little girl unsteadily turned her head back and made eye contact, “I enjoyed my lessons just as much as you did. Keep up the hard work, you’re doing so well.” The girl looked at Faith with her large, brown eyes and timidly returned a smile.

Savannah's mom arrived to take her home. As Faith watched the girl being pushed out of the stable in her wheelchair, the realization struck her: that could’ve been me. The image of the girl’s tiny uncoordinated body burned into her mind. I’m not supposed to be here. She thought. I’m not supposed to be able to run.

...

Faith Gunderson