The Story Eunuch

Have you ever brainstormed a list of fantasy jobs, or simply fun ways to earn money?  Nels and I do this regularly, usually on the deck while listening to music and drinking beer.  We generate possible names for bands, pithy sayings for Magic Hat beer caps, themed music playlists, and so on.  

Unfortunately, there does not appear to be a market for this enterprise, despite the plethora of boring or downright offensive band names (Old 97’s=yawn, Popa Chubby=gross) or beer cap wisdom (Minds Awaken on Roads Less Taken=cool; A beer in hand is worth 2 in the Fridge=yawn).  My latest favorite potential band name is Meat Bat.  I saw it in directions for a recipe to whack chicken breasts to a particular size, but it could also mean a new variety of bat that eats frogs, for instance.  I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never earn a living from Meat Bat.  Damn the internet and its DIY-for free mentality.

Speaking of fantasy jobs, my friend Bryan from yoga teacher training has a great idea.  He theorizes that there are people who want to tell their stories to someone they can trust, knowing that these stories will not get judged or retold.  Bryan would simply listen, without question or expression, not imposing his experience or energy on the story, but just hearing what the person has to say without reacting to it.  When the person left, Bryan would promptly forget the story.  He named this job “The Story Eunuch” because it would be emotionally safe. 

As someone who longs to be heard, this didn’t make much sense to me at first.  I want reaction (with appreciation being especially welcome, thank you very much).   But then I realized that there are lots of stories I tell in my daily journal writing that never make it to a listener or reader.  This writing provides a safe place for making sense of raw experience.  Like the making of sausage, nobody else should be exposed to this process, lest they realize their darkest fears about me, i.e., that I am completely nuts.  For people who don’t use writing as this kind of outlet, however, having a non-reactive listener might be helpful.  It would be a cheaper form of therapy, plus the storyteller would know that Bryan isn’t concocting a way to fix her/him, or even to get her/him to fix her/himself.  

Maybe we all could use a Story Eunuch.  When is the last time you told a story and felt that you were heard without judgment, reactivity, or someone wanting to fix the problem for you?  Or worse, that they would remember that story and always associate it with you, when really, it was just how you felt at that particular moment?  Our stories seem to follow us around.  They gain purchase in the telling and retelling, until even we believe that they convey something more than they actually do.  Stories are powerful arbiters of meaning and identity, whether the meaning is accurate or the identity is truthful.  

Not to put Bryan out of future employment, but I wonder if we each can be our own personal Story Eunuch.  Can we listen to the private stories we tell only ourselves, and the public ones we share, with equanimity and compassion?  Can we choose to see these stories as constructions of experience, as opposed to arbitrary truths?  Perhaps it’s time to inventory our stories, and throw out the ones that don’t serve us.  The ones that create conceit and the ones that hone in on limitations. 

While we are at it, maybe we discard the stories we have about other people:  She’s OCD.  He’s a jerk.  The cat is lazy.  That way, we act as Story Eunuchs for others.   What might happen if we remove these judgments?  What possibilities appear?               

  

Bill Ayers, Katherine Boo, and Me

In yoga teacher training, we talk about dharma, as in “What is your dharma?”  Dharma, loosely translated, means one’s path, or true nature.  One of the questions on the final exam asks, “Is your dharma clear to you?”  For me, the answer to this question is no.  My dharma is maddeningly opaque.  But I recently encountered two people whose dharma is beautifully transparent. 

Bill Ayers is a teacher and writer who has been a social justice advocate since the 1960’s when he first started teaching kindergarten.  His activism has brought him trouble at different times, most recently in 2008 when conservatives excoriated President Obama’s relationship with him (they were both active in Chicago politics).   Fox News discovered he was the keynote speaker for last weekend’s Association of Teacher Educators conference in Atlanta, and there was a brief sizzle about how teacher educators were inviting a known terrorist to speak.  Luckily, the ATE leadership did not bow to this pressure.  Seeing Bill Ayers speak, in person, was a profound and moving experience. 

He talked about seeing the unseen people of the world, because “every human being is of incalculable value.”  He spoke about the differences between teaching the arts of liberty—initiative, courage, imagination, listening, speaking--versus obedience and conformity.  He was earnest and honest about the intellectual and ethical challenges of teaching, and said that it was up to us to change the dialogue that has blamed teachers for the problems of student learning borne out of poverty, inequity, and racism. 

He also said, “Privilege blinds us and anesthetizes us” and insisted that whatever rich kids get in school, all kids should get.  Smaller class sizes, libraries, field trips, discovery learning.  He clearly understood the pressures teachers experience in the face of scripted curricula and few resources.  Ayers said that his son, a high school teacher, told him that he was 70% an agent of the state and 30% a free agent. Ayers urged us to find the nooks and crannies in order to do what is right for our students within that 30%. 

These messages about making the invisible visible and the blindness that comes with privilege reminded me of the book Behind the Beautiful Forevers by reporter Katherine Boo.  She spent over three years collecting and documenting the experiences of residents of Annawadi, a slum adjacent to the Mumbai, India airport.  In a matter-of-fact, nonjudgmental tone, she describes the harshness, the corruption, and the stench through the eyes of several different residents.  Abdul is a garbage sorter who collects recyclables from his fellow residents who scavenge trash from outside the airport.  Asha is a wife and mother who uses the corrupt system to gain power and money for her family’s well-being.  Fatima is a woman born with one leg who changes their world forever when she sets herself on fire in protest and rage against the unfairness she experiences.  Boo humanizes these individuals by providing their perspectives on survival in a place that only wants to get rid of them in order to attract Westerners and others with money. 

Bill Ayers and Katherine Boo are not afraid to look at the results of dehumanizing poverty and inequity.  They do not let us turn our heads from the individual and collective anguish inflicted on the voiceless—poor students of color and slumdwellers.  They also don’t victimize them by claiming what Shoshana Felman calls “passive empathy,” which further oppresses the unseen by removing their power.  Instead, Ayers and Boo view the strengths and choices of their subjects with respect for the individual and the context.  One Annawadi resident says, “Rich people fight about stupid things.  Why shouldn’t poor people do the same?”

I am no Bill Ayers or Katherine Boo.  Neither, probably, are you.  However, we can still bear witness to the social, economic, cultural, racial, and sexual inequities of the world, and vow to see the unseen, not with pity or contempt, but with the knowledge that “every human being is of incalculable value.”  Ayers ended his talk with a quote from the Mary Oliver poem, “Instructions for Living a Life:”

Pay Attention.

Be Astonished.

Do Something.

Sure, that’s a bit opaque for one’s dharma, but I’ll take it.

Coincidence or Serendipity

If You Were Born Today, December 13
You are a very versatile person with an adventurous spirit, yet a very grounded outlook. Material success is likely in your life time, as you are hard-working and proud. As well, you are filled with ideas, and they're usually quite marketable! A true problem solver, you love to find answers and help others to do so as well. 

In what could be a coincidence or serendipity, today is the birthday of two people who have had a big impact on my life.  Heidi was my roommate and friend, and Chuck was my cooperating teacher, principal, and friend.  I met both while in my mid-20’s, a turbulent time for me.  In different ways, they guided me, made me laugh, and offered their unconditional support.    

You just never know who you’re going to meet in the dorm.  I met Heidi through Cheryl, who lived on my floor in Ashton, formerly Rogers Centre, where my parents had met 40 years before.  Ashton consisted of multiple buildings, and I chose this dorm because I wanted a single room.  There were girls on my floor who had wanted a roommate, which seemed like the weirdest thing to me.  Why would you want to share your space? The irony is that Heidi became the only roommate I ever actually enjoyed living with, when we eventually shared two different apartments. During that time, she counseled me through an epic breakup and subsequent relationship with Nels, the man I eventually married. 

I didn’t drink coffee—that is, unless it had hot chocolate mix in it--until I lived with her.  Heidi taught me about the wisdom and joy (not to mention energy) that comes with the smell and taste of strong black coffee, preferably accompanied by fried eggs and hard rolls.  As a German, she also shaped my taste for chocolate.  I would bring home what I thought was a treat—a bag of Hershey Miniatures.  Heidi disdained this offering, and introduced me to chocolate as strong and dark as her coffee.  I am forever grateful, and dark chocolate is still my favorite.    

Along with being a great roommate, Heidi was the first poet I ever met.  She loved books as much as I did, but she was into poetry.  I never appreciated poetry until she introduced me to poets who showed how everyday events and people could become meaningful and beautiful through language.   Even though I only grudgingly went to poetry readings with her (she lured me with the promise of cookies afterward), she also convinced me to take a poetry writing class, where I wrote one good poem and a lot of bad ones.  Now I have two shelves of poetry books and have written several on my own, including a slam poem. 

Heidi also shared her poetry with me.  My favorite was “Women at 40” written for her mom, Ursula.  I’d like to see that poem again now that we are both in our early 40’s.  Heidi wrote this when we were in our 20’s, and 40 couldn’t have seemed any more distant. 

Heidi, thank you for being a terrific roommate and friend.  You were, and no doubt still are, exceedingly generous with your space, food, enthusiasm, and time. 

As I pair teacher candidates with cooperating teachers, I am always reminded of my own fortuitous meeting with Chuck Holloway, who was my cooperating teacher.  When I met him, Chuck was a rollicking 7^th grade teacher at Tri-North Middle School who had previously taught at an alternative school in Colorado.  His sidekick was Suzie McCloud, who taught math next door. They co-taught an English-Math block for the “at-risk” kids.  In the early 90’s, Janet Reno was in the news as the first woman to serve as Attorney General.  Chuck and Suzie, along with special education teacher Connee Headley, thought it was hilarious that I had the same first name as Janet Reno.  As a hazing ritual, they pasted my photo over Reno’s in a newspaper article and posted it all over the school.  The middle school kids didn’t get it, but the teachers thought it was hilarious.  Eventually, I did too. 

 A couple of years later, Chuck became the principal of the new alternative school and hired me as the lone English teacher, along with a math teacher, social studies teacher, and work-study coordinator.  The experience of starting a school—which eventually was named Aurora by the students—is one of the most important of my life.  I learned every single day on the job, and Chuck’s humor and guidance were essential to my personal and professional growth during this time.

The kids who came to Aurora were there because they did not fit into the regular high schools’ social or academic worlds.  Thus, they taught me not only how to teach English, but how to be an advocate.  In the early days especially, I screwed up more than I got right, but they, along with my colleagues and Chuck, put up with me and pushed me gently (and not so gently) to continue to get better. 

I am the teacher I am today because of what I learned from Chuck.  He taught me to appreciate kids as human beings first and students second.  He taught me that schools don’t have to be dictatorial, that students and teachers could have voice in impactful school proceedings, including the gut-wrenching decision to expel students.  He taught me that this kind of pedagogy may be hard, but it’s worth it. 

Chuck, thank you for being my first mentor.  I had no idea what meeting you on that August day 20 years ago would mean, and I am forever grateful for the opportunities you provided and your belief in me. 

Happy birthday to two of my favorite Hoosiers!  Much love to you both.        

Outlaw Country Visits Rhode Island

Steve Earle and Billy Joe Shaver are both grizzled singer songwriters who have influenced scores of performers.  We had the privilege of seeing them both, separately, last week.  Earle played at the Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River, which takes up the third floor of an old warehouse overlooking the river with floor to ceiling windows, wood floors, and an art gallery.  The audience is encouraged to bring picnic baskets and coolers, creating a festive atmosphere.   Billy Joe Shaver was at the Channing Unitarian Church in Newport, built in the 1880’s.  The stone walls, handcrafted wood balustrades, and soaring, painted ceilings were evidence that this was meant to be a holy place, indeed.  Picnic baskets were not welcome here, of course, and the church was all sanctuary, such that if you wanted to go to the bathroom,  you had to go outside and be led to the separate church office via flashlight.   While the Earle show was packed and the Shaver show barely registered 100 people, the crowds were equally fervent.

I was struck by how these two performers were so similar and so different.  They both write from the heart but where Earle is intellectual and political, Billy is strictly a honky tonk guy.  They have both found their dharma in writing, singing and playing with clarity and honesty in a particular genre that has room for both of them. 

Romantic love was not the focus for either performer.  Instead, both talked about love of country, love of God, and love of drugs.  Earle is unabashedly and unrepentantly liberal.  On stage, he said, “Obama is not a socialist. I’m a socialist.”  Because of this statement, conservatives might paint him as unpatriotic, but his point is this:  the promise of the United States is that everyone will have equal opportunity.  Earle’s critiques of the system (and he has many, including the death penalty) does not mean he is against the United States; he just feels we are not living up to the promise of equality and freedom for everyone.

Billy Joe Shaver represents old-school patriotism, claiming in the song “Good Ol’ USA” that he has been around the world, and, pointing vehemently to the ground, the United States is the best place in it.  He didn’t talk about the recent election, like Earle did.  Instead, his loyalty to the U.S., specifically, Texas, was just as unabashed and unrepentant as Earle’s commitment to social justice.   Shaver took care not to alienate anyone in the audience (at least on a patriotic level), unlike Earle.

Both singer songwriters also talked about religion in ways that matched their stance on patriotism.  While Earle didn’t sing the song “God is God” (I believe in God/and God is God) he talked about how the death penalty was a violation of the Ten Commandments.  Because he is a citizen of this country, where the death penalty is legal in many states, he feels that he is implicated.  Therefore he speaks out, in songs, (“Billy Austin” and “Ellis Unit One”) and in outreach to prisoners on death row.  Whatever you want to say about Steve Earle, he follows through on his beliefs. 

Shaver, once again, took a more direct approach.  He said that Jesus was his hero, and thanked God for giving him the gift of songwriting.   Some of his songs have specific mentions of God, and he clearly acknowledged that he was singing in a church.  Both performers have experienced and enjoyed the dark side and told those tales in their music, yet their spirituality was also apparent.  Earle’s approach was finely tuned, whereas for Shaver it’s just not that complicated. 

Going along with the joy of spirituality and surrender to a Divine spirit is what Jung calls the “shadow” side.  Both performers have songs about hell-raising (Earle, “The Week of Living Dangerously” and “Copperhead Road” and Shaver, “Tramp on Your Street” and “The Hottest Thing in Town”) and are not ashamed to talk about it or write about it.  Even as some of their earlier work celebrates a hedonistic lifestyle, and they still sing those songs, they acknowledge the dangers, especially of heroin.  On stage, Earle talked about the powerful force of his own addiction.  He noted that his family members and friends were pretty sure he would die an addict, as was he.  He then launched into “South Nashville Blues” with the lyric “I went downtown just to ease my pain/I took my pistol and a hundred dollar bill/I had everything I needed to get me killed.”

Earle lost years off of his life that he will never get back.  Shaver lost his son Eddy, who played guitar for several famous groups and had also been in Shaver’s band.  In one of the few sobering moments of the show, Shaver dedicated a song to all the people who had either experienced addiction or knew someone who had.  He sang a shaky a capella song while the guys in his band turned around and removed their cowboy hats.  Shaver’s sincerity and sense of loss were as touching as Earle’s matter-of-factness was transfixing.   

Steve Earle is 57 and Billy Joe Shaver is 73.  For both, writing and performing is salvation.  Where Earle is serious and nuanced, Shaver is joyful and straightforward.  Where Earle is troubled, Shaver is delighted.  Both have clearly found their dharma, or their calling, and it was a privilege to see them in action last week.  Their songwriting and performing are exemplars of what the arts can tell us about the human condition, and thus so much more than an evening’s entertainment. 

   

Om not Um

I have taught every semester, every year, since 1995, the year of the O.J. Simpson trial, Jerry Garcia’s death, and the opening of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.  It was also the year of Babe, The Usual Suspects, and “All I Wanna Do” by Sheryl Crow. 

In other words, I’ve been teaching a long time, from high school freshmen to doctoral candidates.  For the first several years, I felt guilty because I was learning more from my students than they were from me.  After a long while, I finally figured out what I was doing.  Or so it seemed.  There were good semesters and bumpy semesters, eager students and indifferent ones.  Through it all, I grew and changed, and still can be absolutely surprised at what my students have to teach me, if I’m willing to listen. 

With all of this experience and reflectivity in and on teaching, I was reasonably certain I could adapt easily from English education to yoga.  As Nels put it, at the very least, I know how to be in front of people and connect with them.  Plus, the sequence of poses was already prepared for me—I didn’t even have to develop it.  Nels even let me teach him the poses so I could practice. 

Thus, I felt mostly prepared to teach my first class this weekend.  Similar to microteaching in the early courses of our secondary education program, the audience would be my peers.  As I watched others teach, my teacher educator self peeked out and I could feel myself being critical.  She didn’t say very much.  He moved too fast.  She skipped that pose.  After listening to my peers’ and teacher’s feedback though, I realized that those were small issues. My teacher was looking for something different, and I saw that the things I had depended upon as a high school English teacher and college professor, that is, my verbal ability and strong personality, were not assets in this setting, but liabilities. 

For example, my teacher asked us to use only necessary words—nouns and verbs--in our instructions.  It was easy to see why.  Filler like “We’re going to…” before the next pose breaks up the rhythm, as every pose has a specific time to inhale and exhale.  She also asked that we focus on what students were experiencing, and when possible, to demonstrate instead of using words. 

This was a struggle.  My teaching persona is built on the outgoing aspects of my personality.  I like to tell stories as well as hear them.  Plus, I enjoy yoga teachers who bring themselves into the room.  However, my teacher’s point was well-taken:  yoga is the place for students to go inward, something that is not readily available in everyday life.  If I’m up there telling stories and trying to impress with clever repartee, the class is focused on me and my performance, not on their experiences with their bodies.

Thus, before the class, I was determined to shut the hell up.  I even wrote, “Stop talking!” on my cheat sheet.  Alas, it was not to be.  I kept using the word “gently” as in “gently raise your left leg” or “gently lay your head on the mat.”  I also said “um” a lot.  It’s kind of ironic, since “Om” is the universal word to start and end yoga classes.  At least I got that right.

My biggest disappointment, though, was that I was so concerned with getting things right that I neglected my students.  In fact, I barely opened my eyes through the first postures.  My teacher pointed out that several of us, when teaching, neglected a peer who, due to injury, was having difficulty executing a particular pose.  As she reminded us, being a good teacher is about self-control.  The teacher needs to be able to put aside her ego to focus on her students.  Duh.  How many times have I said this to the candidates I teach?

On the plus side, my peers told me that they felt safe and that I taught with integrity.  I also did well with what I thought would be my biggest problems:  pacing (slow) and voice (soft. I know!  Can you believe it? Me?).    My teacher said that I executed my intention to have a restful class.  This made me feel better.

This experience reminded me of two things.  First, doing something is not the same as teaching it. Just because I have been doing variations of these yoga poses for five years doesn’t mean I know how to teach them to others. Second, it is not only the tasks that are challenging, but recognizing and understanding the nuances of a teaching environment. Any classroom, in any setting, has a unique meta-structure that is only partially discernible to all but the most observant students.  This structure reflects the values and demands of the institution and the teacher. Thoughtful and skilled teachers render the structure invisible, but its absence becomes obvious when an inexperienced or clumsy teacher steps in.

Once again, I am reminded that the intellectual work of teaching is only part of the equation, albeit a necessary part.  Nothing takes the actual place of practice with compassionate and knowledgeable observers, whether they are students, peers or teachers. My message to teacher candidates, then, is this:  take every opportunity to teach and get feedback.  Read not only the surfaces of the teaching environment, but what is going on underneath, just as you would with any text.  And always question your motives when planning and executing a lesson.  Does the lesson reflect what your students need at this moment in this context?

My message to myself, as a teacher educator, is to observe my candidates with compassion and patience.  As I was reminded, becoming teacher is hard work, and flailing about is part of the process.  

  

Namaste.          

Presence versus Performance

This weekend, I will be teaching my first yoga class to fellow teacher trainees. 

There will be no objectives, no standards, and no assessments, at least in the sense I’m used to.  In the field of education, we use these various tools in order to justify what we are doing; to prove that it is meaningful in a larger context.   

With yoga, it is somewhat different.  I will be following a set “lesson plan,” in that I will be teaching Dharma Mittra’s Gentle Sequence.  He developed this sequence based on his work with his guru, who got it from his guru, and so on back to the teachings of yoga based on ancient Hindu scriptures.  There’s a history here, a sense of groundedness and connection that often seems missing from the field of education’s ever-evolving standards of what should be taught, why, and when.   In yoga, student safety and well-being are far more important than whether s/he accomplishes a particular pose and to what degree.  There is a mutual understanding between teacher and student that every day is different, every body is different, and that yoga is a nonlinear process that evolves.  There is no finish line, no test that says yes, I am a winner, I am an “A” yoga student. 

Yoga students are not measured against one another.  I have never heard a yoga teacher say that a student has low skills, for example.  Some students are more flexible, some are more experienced, and some know their bodies very well, but the unique strengths and struggles of each student is recognized and appreciated.    

Thus, yoga teachers are not evaluated on the skills and accomplishments of their students.  It is up to the teacher to provide the structure and guidance for a thoughtful and meaningful experience of body, mind, and heart.  It is then up to the student to choose to what degree she accepts these teachings.  In schools, students are punished if they don’t accept what their teacher offers, whether or not these teachings fit with their learning styles, previous knowledge, and interests. 

With this in mind, how will I know whether I have done a good job of teaching? Because yoga is a practice, and this teaching is practice, it feels both low-stakes and high-stakes.  It’s low-stakes because these are my colleagues and they know the poses and know me; it’s a gentle sequence so nobody will get hurt; and I have my teacher’s support.  But it’s also high-stakes because I need to recognize each student’s strengths and fragilities of body and ego. 

Come to think of it, maybe teaching yoga is not all that different from teaching English.  Beginning English teachers focus on activities and methods; beginning yoga teachers probably focus on poses and sequencing.  But the real teaching, in both yoga and English, comes with being fully present to and for students.  Because this is difficult to measure, it will never be on any PRAXIS test offered by the Educational Testing Service.  However, as a teacher, teacher educator, and student, I know it when I see it.  Presence comes with confidence, experience, and a finely tuned sense of what is happening in the classroom or yoga studio; what is said, and what is felt. 

As I observe my English teacher candidates in the schools and teach my first yoga classes over the next few weeks, that is what I will be looking for and working on.  Good teaching is not about performance.  It’s about presence.    

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

 “When I had to stop running, it was like a breakup.”  Jill J.

I don’t know about you, but I suck at breakups.  Good thing I’ve been married for 18 years and am as in love with my partner as ever.  But back in the day, I managed to shred every bit of respect and possible friendship with ex-boyfriends.  My friend Lesley is on good terms with all of her exes, inviting them over for parties where they even mingle with one another.  Me, not so much. 

Here’s my pattern:  decide it’s over, but am not sure how to break it to the person.  Behave incredibly badly so he breaks up with me instead.  Feel terrible and make him feel terrible too.

I broke up with T the summer between 10^th and 11^th grade. I dated one of his friends who had a Camaro (okay, it was the 80’s), and then felt sorry for T and got back together with him.  Whereupon he borrowed 50 bucks from me and left town with no further word.  I stalked as best I could, but to no avail.  So I ended up eating loaves of Roman Meal bread the entire summer, gained 10 lbs., and experienced a plummet in grades and self-esteem that I haven’t seen before or since.

Then there was B.  Handsome motorcycle rider, independent at 20 years old, living on his own with a pit bull (don’t judge; Veda was sweet).  I abandoned my first semester at IU to move in with B (now you can judge).  After a year, I moved all my stuff back to my parents’ house without telling B.  I’ll never forget the devastation on his face when he came home and saw that I moved out.  I honestly thought it would be easier that way, but needless to say, abruptly ending a year-long relationship without any advance notice did not exactly inspire a drama-free scene.

And finally, there was G. You’d think I would have learned something with the previous two experiences, but no.  I knew this relationship was limited, but it was fun and kept me from being lonely.  Then I met Nels (whom I later married and still am to this day), and I tried really hard to extricate myself from G.  G didn’t make it easy, though.  I broke up with him, then felt sorry for him, got back together, and then broke up again over the phone.  He left multiple nasty messages on my answering machine. Nels heard them and said, “I would never say that to you.”  And he hasn’t.  Ever. 

It’s clear that breaking up in a caring, thoughtful way, where all parties agree that it was the best thing, is simply not in my repertoire.  I haven’t seen or talked to T, B, or G since, and it’s probably clear why.  But as I consider my newest breakup, with marathoning, I hope this time is different, and we can still be friends.  I still intend to run, but I’m aware that the romance with long distance is gone.

Marathoning and I talked it over, and it’s clear we are on the same page.  I no longer have the same devotion and commitment to it.  It doesn’t want a half-assed effort on my part.  We even decided to part friends.  I will visit as my partner continues to run long distances with his eye on the coveted BQ (Boston Qualifier), and I will continue to run, albeit without a watch and without regard to weekly mileage. 

However, marathoning and I agreed to maintain our relationship until last weekend.  Just as warring couples stay together for an important event, like prom, a friend’s wedding, or a visit with the in-laws, marathoning and I had a long-standing date in Washington D.C. for the Marine Corps Marathon.  For the third and last time, we braved the mileage, soreness, and salt-encrusted skin together. 

In my innocence, I thought we had parted friends.  As befitting a split between real lovers, and my previous relationships, this last event was long, painful, and full of doubt and hurt.  Despite the inspiring location, prodigious crowds, and reasonable training, I was miserable much of the time, trying to find excuses to quit.  Adding injury to insult, I just found out I have a stress fracture in my left foot.  I guess I still have much to learn about breaking up gracefully.