Songs of Experience

It’s Saturday, so it’s time to write my weekly seejanerun e-mail about where to meet and what to do next week. After the nuts and bolts of how many intervals with how much rest, or how many minutes to add to their long runs, I tack on a (required) reading/quote which can be anything from an article like the one I copied and pasted from 37 Days, to song lyrics (i.e. “just another manic Monday …. whoa-oh … I don’t wanna run day”), to a serious poem like Wilbur’s below. I am ever on the prowl for new ways to think about, talk about, nurture and protect the connection we all feel in our sacred circle of running moms. With this group of women I am not afraid to share ideas that others might call “out there” (or what my former sister-in-law and I once referred to as woo-woo … as in, almost crazy).

Today I will send them this explanation of the Mohegan flag for their weekly reading:

The new flag is white bearing a royal blue band around the outer edge. In the center is the new tribal seal with the name, “The Mohegan Tribe” arcing over the seal in black letters. Arcing under the new seal is the Mohegan phrase “MUNDU WIGO”, a favorite expression of Ms. Fidelia Fielding, one of the last fluent speakers of the Mohegan tongue. “Mundu Wigo” translates into “The Creator is good”.

The new seal is a black circle ringed by a red border. Centered on the black ring is a red dot circled by thirteen smaller white dots. These lie on a black background edged by a white narrow border forming a square. Attached to each side of the square is a roayl blue semicircle, again edged in white. From each corner of the square a diagonal white line aims out toward the edge of the red outer circle. Just prior to touching the red ring, the white line separates and folds back upon itself.

The meaning of the four semicircular domes point to each of the four sacred directions, represent the back of “Grandfather Turtle upon whom the earth was formed ” and reflects the shape of the old wigwam dwellings of the Mohegan people. The four diagonal lines are four sacred trees reminding us of the”The Sacred Tree” or the “Tree of Life”. They also represent a “branching out towards future generations.”

The thirteen white dots recall the thirteen moons in a lunar year, the thirteen sections on a turtle’s back and thirteen generation’s since Uncas, great leader of the Mohegans. Finally, the central red dot is the “Sacred Center Circle” of the spiritual life force felt throughout the universe.

I found this Mundu Wigo flag logo on a sweater in a discount clothing store (hey, it was only $5.00!). I had been on the look-out for a warm sweater to wear in our often-chilly church, so I felt literally blessed to find one that had “the creator is good” karma attached to it. When I tell my seejanerunners that I truly believe God showed me this sweater – smilingly, yes? – they won’t laugh at me (well, they might, but it will be to my face and not behind my back ), and they won’t judge me for being ultra-religious (because I’m not), and they won’t feel pressured to believe the same thing (who ever does?). Instead, my friends – my sacred circle of friends – will say, “That’s just Joan.”

And to think … running brought us all together.
The creator is good.

I am giving a talk today to the UNC track club (versus track team … two separate entities … the club being a group that would welcome wisdom from an outside source; the other, well, let’s just say I’ve never been invited back for the, er, family reunions). I’ve been pondering what I might say to a group of 20-something club runners, some of whom are helping out with my youth Pacers running club. I really have nothing in common with 20 year-olds – an age in my own life filled with too much angst, too much self, and too much too much. Too TOO, as my middle daughter once said. Were I to repeat my 20’s – as some sort of Karmic punishment by a vengeful God – I might not make it out.

So, this morning when the mother of a now-grown Pacer handed me a plastic bag filled with – what’s this?! – an old jumpsuit of mine from the Olympic team uniform kit that I had given out for a Pacer prize ten years ago, I knew the perfect “prop” had fallen in my lap. You should see this thing. It’s one part astronaut suit, one part ghostbusters outfit, one part bee-keepers get-up. I look a bit like Elvis Junior, the blonde version, in it. It is so ridiculous looking that I plan to wear it to my talk this afternoon, all zipped up and serious.

Those hip UNC kids are going to think I’m some freak stuck in the past – re-living my glory days. I will set them up with stories of “The Olympics” and my life as a professional runner … then, in dramatic fashion, I will unzip the zoot suit and say I am finished with all that. In a Saint Paul-like moment, I will rid myself of the “old garment” (the old self) and don the new. Underneath the suit will be … jeans, a Pacer tee-shirt, work boots, car keys. More props to show the common (better? humbler?) less selfish life one grows into after spending two decades chasing an individual dream.

The details are all very nebulous right now, but I assure you The Unveiling talk will be a winner.

The Writer
by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,

My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing

From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff

Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:

I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,

As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,

And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling

Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;

How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;

And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature

Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove

To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,

For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,

Beating a smooth course for the right window

And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,

Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish

What I wished you before, but harder.

My Seattle friend inquired as to my whereabouts (my blogabouts) this last week and, yes Eric, I have been swamped with back-to-school busy-ness … along with my back-to-fall coaching duties. I have the Janes in the morning, the Pacers in the afternoon, and my elites at night.
Chapel Hill has caught running fever!!

I often explain that my pure love of running goes back to a basic right/pleasure/necessity? of childhood: I like to play outside! Remember, as a kid, how you’d rush in the front door, throw your school junk down, change into your play clothes and be back out in the street or the neighbor’s yard in 2 minutes? I don’t even recall having a snack – though I’m sure my mom must’ve given me one. We played so many running games – hide and seek with the racing back to home-base for safety rule (versus the stay put until you’re found version); kick the can; ditch-it (sort of a group hide & seek, running as a pack all over the neighborhood); two-hand-touch-below-the-waist football on looooong fields which required lots of back-and-forth running; and my personal favorite – obstacle course … timed with a real, sweeping-hand stopwatch that my big brother owned. Even as a kid I was very “coacherly;” I would make up these crazy courses weaving in and out of Mr. Holly’s rose bushes, three summersaults down the Cunningham’s side yard, leap over the stump, run backwards to the sidewalk, hop on one foot per sidewalk square, two times around the big oak tree, five jumping jacks, and then sprint home. Click! went the stopwatch. “1 minute and 43 seconds!” I’d yell, “That’s the time to beat.” Then the next kid would tear off his/her coat and attempt to break the record. “On your mark, get set, go!”

It was mad fun, but I often wonder … did we run that much because it was so bloody cold playing outside after school in the midwest? Or is it that all human beings simply crave running in a basic, primal, animal way?

Please indulge me; I just had to post this permission form that was sent home in Rosie’s school folder.

Dear Parents,
We will be feeding Zeus, our ball python, three mice every couple of weeks.
This can be a little gruesome because when he catches one of the mice, he squeezes them to their death and then swallows them whole. When he swallows them their fur gets all wet and their eyes sometimes bulge. Therefore, we are requesting parent permission for your child to be able to watch Zeus be fed.

I give my child, ______________, permission to watch Zeus be fed.
Parent signature ___________________.

My middle daughter, Rosie, had the following assignment in her 4th grade class:

“Eleven is about the best age for almost anything.” from, The Changeling (by, Zilpha Hentley Snyder). Make a best age for list in which you decide what different ages are best for. For example, age 2 is the best age for throwing fits; age 5 is he best age for learning how to tie a shoe. Include your age and the ages 14, 16, 21, 30, 50, 65, 100.”

Here is Rosie’s list:

9 is the best age for reading;
14 is the best age for babysitting;
16 is the berst age for taking tests;
21 is the best age for choosing a job;
30 is the best age for having kids;
50 is the best age for grown-up parties;
65 is the best age for cruising;
100 is the best age for telling stories.

I just checked Virginia Woolf’s Moments of Being out of the library. I can’t believe I made it to age 44 … nearly 25 years of my life as a reader … never having been assigned this book. By “assigned,” I don’t just mean a reading assignment for class (I have a BA and an MA in English, along with a certification to teach hich school English); I mean when the universe insists you must read a certain book. I remember finding Sherwood Anderson this way, and Willa Cather, William Saroyan and Edgar Lee Masters … all canonical American writers, but somehow never covered in school.

My ex, a Shakespeare professor, blames it on the disitegration of traditional literature studies (in the name of political correctness) at university. Relativism opens the English department barn door to all sorts of critters. This can be a good thing (i.e. studying album lyrics as poetry. I’ll never forget hearing/reading Bob Dylan’s Tangled Up in Blue my sophomore year in college) or it can be a waste of time. The great writers of great books should be taught year in and year out. And don’t give me this crap about point of view determining greatness. A story is a story. Dostoevsky was a brilliant storyteller, Keats a perfect poet, Virginia Woolf the master of capturing a moment of consciousness.

A moment of being …

She draws a distinction between moments of being and non-being that I find particularly interesting. Frank Shorter (and others) once descibed two, opposite states of consciousness while running: associative and disassociative. Associative running occurs in a hard work-out or race, where all of your psychic energy is focused on the physical act of running (your breath, your legs, arms, the clock, that person’s back, the side stitch you might have – it’s all being closely monitored in this associative state). Disassociative running is when you’re NOT paying attention to the act of running … you might be thinking of work, the kids, Aunt Martha’s funeral, a hair appointment, the oniony smell of grass clippings, any and all things NOT physical.

Now, it takes both kinds of running to create a balanced training program … and, I suspect, it takes both kinds of living (being and non-being) to create a balanced life.

(more…)

Today I received this missive from USA Track & Field:

Dear USATF Member,

As you are aware, several doping cases involving track and field athletes, including Justin Gatlin, recently been in the news. We don’t need to tell you how serious of a concern this is for the track and field world, for USATF and even for American sports as a whole, especially given that these cases coincide the testosterone positive of Tour de France winner Floyd Landis.

Since the BALCO scandal of 2003/2004, our athletes, Board of Directors, administrators, coaches and membership have worked to battle doping in our sport. USATF adopted and began to implement our Zero Tolerance policy at the Annual Meeting in 2003. Thanks to the organization uniting as one, and to the efforts of our athletes and their actions on and off the track, we were able to put the drugs issue in the background. But as we have known from the very start, drugs will never be behind us, and these cases – the first “major” doping cases involving track athletes since BALCO – is a prime example.

We have all learned valuable lessons from the past several years, and we cannot overstate the fact that these cases provide the gravest of challenges to our organization once again. We must address them in the most direct and effective way possible. Keeping an open dialog with our members is one of the most important measures we can take, because you are critical to the future of our sport on every level.

In order to ensure the brightest future and to maintain and restore track and field’s credibility, certain steps are crucial, whether you are a youth athlete, masters athlete, coach, official, manager or fan:

* Do not cheat or encourage others to cheat. You may think you can cheat or help others to cheat and get away with it, but you can’t. WADA, USADA, the USOC, the IAAF and USATF are working together to expand testing and are constantly making it more effective. There are ongoing and far-reaching federal investigations that are likely to lead to explosive new developments and lines of inquiry. Cheaters will be caught and punished.

* Report cheaters. The only way for us to get to a level playing field is to get the cheaters out of our sport. You can play a key role by reporting cheating athletes, coaches, trainers and agents to USATF’s confidential anti-doping hotline (1-866-809-8104) or to USADA.

* Embrace the public. Now, more than ever, we all must reach out to the public to define our sport and our athletes in ways that are different and better than other sports. This can be accomplished in many ways, and USATF is going to provide more and more opportunities for our athletes to interact with fans and the public. As a member, you can embrace the public by discussing with your friends, family and colleagues how seriously USATF takes the doping issue, as illustrated by the fact that we catch cheaters, regardless of whether they are “also-rans” or world champions.

In addition to the steps above, the USATF Board of Directors is once again investigating steps we can take to deter athletes from doping and to rid the sport of any individual – athlete, coach, trainer, manager, or agent – who advocates doping. We also continue to have an open dialog with the USOC, U.S. Anti-Doping Agency and IAAF about measures we can take collectively.

Doping is not just a problem for athletes or for our sport; it is a problem for all Americans. We must continue to work together in the constant battle to rid our sport of drugs.

Warm regards,

Bill Roe, President
Craig A. Masback, CEO

Oooooh, I can’t wait to find out what (who) the “explosive new developments and lines of inquiry” are!!

The truth will out.

From Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice.

LAUNCELOT:

“Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of
the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his
own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of
your son: give me your blessing: truth will come
to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son
may, but at the length truth will out,”.

*

“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time.
It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.”

-Virginia Woolf

All right, people, my pity party ends today. I coach three groups of runners whose autumn season begins this week, so I need to stop wallowing in my narcissistic quagmire. I do appreciate you few commenters – you few, you happy few – who tried to lift my spirits during this sad, fumbling time in my life … as well as those of you who contacted me, directly, off-line (Paula, Kelly, Wendell, etc.). My “crisis” is one part empty nest, one part mid-life, and one part, “Holy crap! What do I do now?”

The good therapy Eric writes of has helped. I even tried his chocolate cure; last night, I polished off a king-sized Hershey bar while watching junk TV (if you must know, it was Wife Swap; Dave and I joke about some out-of-shape couple switching lives with us – all that running they’d have to do, god!). But enough is enough. I’m ready to get back to work.

And work, for me, right now is coaching. I often wonder how my “little space” as a coach can make a difference in anyone’s life. But then I remember MY highschool coach and how he completely changed my life – how he changed me – and I believe what Guy de Maupassant says in The Necklace:

“How singular life is, how changeable! What a little thing it takes to save you or to lose you.”

It would take several posts to catalogue all the ways Coach McAfee (from East Mecklenburg high school in Charlotte, NC – go eagles!!) changed, helped, encouraged, pushed, inspired, saved, loved me.

I was not a runner when he first invited me out for the cross-country team; I was a tennis player/cheerleader. Coach Mac found out through my highschool transcript that I’d raced the mile at the Alabama state track meet, and thought I might want to “make some nice friends” (exact words) because I had just moved to town. He also knew my 5:32 mile as a 10th-grader wasn’t half bad. I am still making nice friends from this amazing sport, but you can’t imagine how crucial it was to a 16 year-old – who’d just moved half-way across the country – to find a family of runner-friends.

In August, I traveled back to Charlotte for the masters’ track nationals and, last-minute, I e-mailed Coach Mac to invite him to the race. I wanted him to meet my daughters; rather, I wanted them to meet him. Of course, Coach Mac showed up, track-side, having not aged a bit, I thought, and when I introduced him to Sarah Jane, Rosie, and Lizzie I said, “Coach Mac. is the reason I got a full scholarship to college – which is true – but what I didn’t say, what is nearly impossible to articulate, is that Coach Mac. is the reason I am still running today and still trying and still believing and still coaching and still loving. He “saved” me from cynicism and despair and faithlessness. He gave me the gift of running for life!

“What a little thing it takes to save you or to lose you.”

Little thing?
Nope. It’s huge.
Thank you, Coach Mac!!

I have been wondering why no one commented on my last two posts, but then I read this (below) in Hermione Lee’s biography of Virginia Woolf … and I thought, “Why, of course!”

“And she (Woolf) cancels from the final version of that essay a passage on Florence Nightengale’s autobiography Cassandra, a painful expression of the thwarted lives of nineteenth-century women: ‘It is hardly writing, it is more like screaming.’ Screams of rage and pain are not what she wants to hear from other women, or what she allows herself.”

Note to self: Apparently, 21st-century readers don’t like screams of rage and pain either.