Notes from the Red Bird House

Last night my leg rested against hers. I sat down next to her. Our legs met. And stayed. Was it purposeful? Any of it? Did I intend for my leg to rest against hers? We could probably argue that yes, yes I did, though the action - the sitting, the resting against - wasn't planned. It happened. Happenstance. Kismet, luck perhaps. The greater consideration, from where I sit at least, is her leg. When my leg came to rest against it - ever so gently, I might add - she didn't move. Not an inch. In either direction. I think that's important to note (if one tends to overthink as I do). She neither leaned in nor did she move away. She simply let it be. Did she not notice the magnetism and electricity between us? That part could certainly have been all me, given my vast imagination. And then there's the whole wishful thinking thing that I am insanely good at. Because...well, because...let's just leave it right there before plausible deniability ends up in a messy pile on

If I close my eyes (like I'm going to do for a brief moment now), I'm somehow transported back. I wake suddenly. I'm in a hotel room in Reykjavik. It's quiet and dark except for a sliver of light coming through the not-quite-closed blackout curtains. I can feel the cool sheets and weight of the duvet and its pristine white cover. It's night, though I have no idea what time it is. I'd gone to bed early. That much I know. I might have been asleep five minutes or five hours. I wouldn't know until I looked at watch.  I can close my eyes again and a very similar scene plays. I wake suddenly. I'm in the same dark hotel room, same sliver of light, same cool sheets. This time I'm not alone. I feel her body against mine, holding me as a lover would. For an instant, it's warm, comforting, welcome. Then the realization hits and I'm terrified. I can't get away fast enough. As I pull away, she disappears. A dream. I'd been dreaming. It'

"For me, the greater shame would have been in not trying. Failing and learning from that failure are far easier to overcome. At least for me." ~ Stacee Ann Harris, on the first DNF of her running career Writing is always a good exercise for me. At times, it's a celebration; at others, it brings light to the darkness. Today, unfortunately, it's the latter. I need some perspective; better said I need to find some perspective. If I don't, if I continue to wallow chest deep in the woulda-shoulda-couldas, I'll never learn, never re-frame the experience. And chances are I'll never get past it. Well, at least not anytime soon. So here I am in my office and preparing to write yet another blog about running. And life. Because try as I might I can never seem to tease the two apart. This morning, I ran the first half of the Austin Marathon Half Marathon. Yes, just the first half. Somewhere between Miles 5 and 6, the calf injury I experienced last week (while r

They say that things come to you when the time is right. I don't know exactly who "they" are, but I think they are right. Maybe not in all cases, though I would agree even the chicken pox came exactly when they needed to come. I recall that day - as I woke up a little itchy - saying how I could really use a break. Well, I got it -  the Chicken Pox Vacation, ten days away from "it all." I wrote, got drunk several times with a friend who'd had them as a child, and played games (actual board games) with another who likewise braved the risk of infection. That was February 2009. I remember because a woman I kind of liked asked me to a Super Bowl Party and I didn't go - because of the pox. Or so I seem to recall. A decade later, I really don't know. I guess that party wasn't where I was supposed to be. And clearly, she wasn't the one. But I did get the break I'd wanted so badly. Last April, I met a woman on a train in Norway. We both got on i