Letters

There are hundreds of letters stored away in a non-descript cardboard box. They are faded and yellowed, each stored in their original envelopes.

There was no email in 1948. No internet. Phone calls were even a challenge because the long distance charges were tough on most folks struggling to put food on the table.

But these letters tell a story. A story that my Mom and Dad worked hard to create and maintain.

The letters are written before my parents married. Dad was working as a dentist at a state home for mentally challenged adults and children. My mother was in nursing school many miles away. Each was written with exceptional detail and patience. And each was treasured so much that they the next survived 80 years, protected by that same old cardboard box and now stored away on my bookshelves.

Reading them gives me insight into the souls of this man and woman. How they thought. What they did. Their priorities and values. Their is so much to learn. To appreciate. To emulate.

My mind goes to other letters. The letters from the hand of God. The letters that tells me how He thinks. What He does. What He values and prioritizes. What He appreciates. What he wants us to emulate.

When I read those cardboard box letters, I get to know my Mother and Father. When I read the Holy book, I get to know that Father.

Both are precious. The later is of eternal value.

Grit or quit?

 

There is a 50% difference between the letters in grit and quit. It takes intentionality to choose which 50% you embrace.

And yes, the pic is ancient. 1997 JFK 50 Mile. But I chose grit, not quit, for the win (literally)

Here's the truth: Crossing the line first isn't always guaranteed even with massive amounts of grit. And when you do cross, more times than not it will not give you the top spot on the podium.

But quit? Quit will never get you there no matter what.

Choose carefully.

Frozen?

Frozen in time? World closing in?

What then?

Hang on.

Huddle up.

Might still be cold but it never always gets worse.

Retired?

I'm retired. Sort of. Not really.

It's been nearly 2 years since I showed up at 7:30 AM and left sometime wayyy later. It was good. I really liked the college kids I worked with and it seemed to be mutual. Still, I didn't shed any crocodile tears on my last day.

I had plans. Speak on more platforms. House projects. Home improvement. Landscaping. Continue to work with coaches and athletes. Earn an EMT certification. Serve the community. Hang out with my grandkid. Train hard for very long races. Publish another book.

And now I'm here. Lots of boxes checked. More to come.

But still, I enjoy not setting an alarm (unless I am the school taxi for my granddaughter). There is more time to read. Stay up late. Experiment with breadmaking. Swim at the Y. Hit the reset button after my surgery. Develop more connections without the pressure of "have to."

I like this life. Not too busy but busy enough.
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If you would like a spot on my retired-not retired calendar, let's talk. It is a true privilege when I "get to" work with coaches and athletes, inspire audiences to do big things, and help teams become their best.

Fishpond lessons

 Fishpond lessons.

The hole is closing, getting smaller by the minute.
Opportunities disappearing.
Hope evasive.

Or. . .
Is the hole actually opening up?
Getting larger by the minute.
Opportunities presenting themselves.

It all depends on your perspective.
The hole is what it is, kept open by the continuous fountain.
But it's a singular snapshot of reality.

Is the hole actually getting bigger or smaller?
If temps are warming, the hole is likely getting bigger.
But if the temps are dropping, the hole might be closing. (Too bad for the 🐟 that swim beneath the surface.

So what do we do with this reality?
What do we do when we feel like life is closing in?
What do we do when we feel opportunities slipping away?

Perhaps we should make like the fish. If history repeats itself, they know how to weather the frigid weather. They slow WAYYYY down. Barely moving. Preserving energy. Biding their time. The rest they get saves them for the future.

And then it eventually warms. Activity increases and productivity rises, fueled by the necessary period of rest and dormancy.

For a multitude of reasons, I feel like I am in a period of dormancy. In fact, the hole may get smaller before it gets bigger. But I'm OK with that.

The thaw will come - eventually - and I'll be OK.

Just 5.99.

 5.99. Not 6. Just 5.99.

A few months ago I would never have let this happen.

I would have walked around the house until my watch reported the nice round number of 6.0 because 5.99 would have made me nuts.

Honestly, it's typical among my running friends. 17.3 doesn't cut it. We run the parking lot until the watch says 17.5, an acceptable number. Or if the watch says 21.6, there is a compulsion to run down the road 0.2 miles and back again to force the watch to read 22.0.

Why? Are we better people when we do this? Is it because we are committed to meeting some arbitrary goal that may or may not be critical? Will we fail in the next race if we don't log the extra 0.4 miles? Probably not.

It's silly, although I can understand that cutting corners can be problematic.

Still, I'm trying hard to let go of that which is inconsequential. Those things that bind me. Imprisons me. Holds me captive to something that doesn't really matter.

It goes beyond making my watch read an acceptable number. I can get hung up on the way my husband puts his newly washed clothes in the drawer. Or obsess over a room that is not spic and span every minute of every day. Or get upset when the salad mix goes bad before the expected date.

I want to focus on what is truly important, not that which holds no significant value.

How about you? What is hard to let go of?