run this amazing day

When I was eleven or twelve years old, I won a talent competition at church. 
 I was wearing a dress that looked like curtains or maybe a cover for the fanciest couch in the house.  I had stringy bangs and braces and was beyond shy and to be honest there weren't that many other musicians there that day, but it was the first time in my life that I knew - before anyone else said a word - that I had done something well.  My grandma was in the audience and I overheard her telling the story for weeks, my granddaughter sang On Eagle’s Wings and it was like an angel (as grandparents do).  She was so proud of me, in a way not dissimilar to when we fall in love with a band and then three years later they make it big.   I believed; but  I already knew .   I sang, bits and pieces, lessons and recitals and trying not to get noticed in the back row of chorus class because timid, awkward nerds don’t find their place in the world at the age of fifteen.  My senior year of high school brough

As it goes with bloggers everywhere, the longer you are away from your space, the more difficult it is to return.  I’ve read some articles lately glumly predicting the death of blogs entirely, claiming that technology is pressing advancement to platforms requiring a much shorter attention span than the one required to sit down and actually read the run-on thoughts of a random internet stranger.  It makes sense.  While I am a person that absolutely hates change and only gets a new iPhone when I drop the old one in a puddle or the Pacific Ocean, I can appreciate this trend, even if it’s not for me.  But that’s not where I’ve been, or why I’ve been gone.  I haven’t stepped away for any other reason than I don’t know what to say, and now that I am trying to be here again, I can tell I've forgotten the process of trying to crap it all out in the first place.   There is vulnerability is discussing failure, Brené taught the world that several years ago .  It’s become a buzzword, we as

I wrote, five or six weeks ago at this point, about the cautious early work of rebuilding.  The first time this, the first time that, the early steps back towards the chasing-watts-and-puppies life I am accustomed to living not to mention the monumental amount of selfies in a bike kit that show up on instagram as I blunder through the world.   I went to Arizona - not this past weekend where holy crap some lucky athletes got to experience maybe the best weather in the history of ever - but the weekend of the 70.3.  I signed up for the AZ 70.3/140.6 double a year ago, when I had enough faith in a body that I trusted to plunk down $900 towards a race schedule.  I thought about racing the 70.3 but in the end, I wasn't ready.  I've participated in enough races for one year, and I was not interested in standing on a line until I felt strong, healthy, and deeply fit.  I'm still not.  At that time, I was hopeful that I could build enough to take a chance at the full, and the two

I read a lot.   I always have, I learned how when I was about eleven minutes old.  There's a tale I tell about the first time I ever got in trouble at school; it was for reading books under my desk instead of paying attention in class because I had already read the entire textbook.  For most of fifth grade, my backpack was checked at home before I left in the morning then searched again by my teacher to make sure I wasn't sneaking any books into school; I am, above all other things, the original nerd. I still read just as much as I did as a kid, I consider it one of the pillars of my own continuing education as a coach.  There are plenty of blogs out there that I read regularly and Jordan Rapp is high up on the list at least in part because I get the sense through his writing that my brain works a little bit like his does.  Detached, scientific, thorough, meticulous, compartmentalization level: expert (he fortunately seems to be missing the piece that makes him Exorcist-sty