Wishes on a Saturday Night

Each year, in early August, a group of friends old and new gather at a house outside of Lake Geneva to stare up at the sky. The Perseid Meteor Shower is enough of a reason to have a party, no?

We munched on Mexican food, toasted to a newly built deck, and golf-carted our way up the hill to the darkest, highest spot we could find. Our venue for the evening was once a ski resort, the perfect spot for sky-watching.

A cacophony of treefrogs, bugs and birds filled the air as we settled in atop the hill to wait for the "show." I lost count after about the twentieth shooting star. We stayed for just a few hours, but in those moments ... it's hard not to feel something.

At one with the Universe. Holy. Alive. Grateful. You lay there, velvet sky shot through with glittering diamonds hanging low above you, the best of friends surrounding you, and somehow, you feel more like yourself than you've felt for a long time. A star shoots across the sky, leaving a tail behind it for a fraction of a fraction of a second.

You make a wish.

And another.

And another.

It seems endless, this stream of wishes streaking across the midnight sky.

Lessons from the footlights

It's been two years since I've stepped onto a stage. Two years since I warmed up the pipes to entertain a crowd. Two years since I gave myself over to that momentary magic of shared energy between performers and their audience.

Two years is a long time, and in that time a lot of nerves have the potential to rear their ugly head. And not without merit; I have my share of theater demons. By far my most humiliating moment on the stage happened in the spring of 1984, when I was playing Annie Oakley in "Annie Get Your Gun" at East Aurora High School. During one performance, I got completely lost in the song You Can't Get a Man With a Gun.

Completely. Lost. So lost, in fact, that when I looked down at the pit orchestra I saw my sister Pat (playing the piano) flipping furiously through the sheet music, desperate to find where I was. I saw the drummer just stop playing, and lower his head. See, the song is one of those repetitive ditties in which every verse sounds the same ... so if you don't follow yourself along, you're screwed. I was so completely gone, I just walked off the stage. There was no redeeming the song, so I gave up.

Those who know me will find this surprising, as I am not the "throw-in-the-towel" type, but at that moment, it couldn't be avoided.

And it has haunted me ever since.

Fast-forward to last Saturday. I arrived at our final rehearsal for the Summer Showcase in Libertyville, ready to run through all the songs. Everything was going along smoothly until it was time for my solo. I stepped up to the microphone, belted out the first line ... and immediately skipped ahead to the second verse. I tried again. Nothing. My cast mates waited patiently through a few more false starts, the band members tried their best to help me muddle through, and - God love him - my director assured me it was going to be okay. But I was having none of it. There just isn't an excuse or a reason; there is only an unprofessional performer, stuck in her head.

I told him I couldn't do it, and I took my seat. At the time, I wasn't sure what I meant; can I not do it now, or ever? I was freaking out and sad. I turned away from the cast in the sidelines and had myself a bit of a cry, and we got through the rest of rehearsal without a hitch. No one came at me with platitudes or bullshit; everyone (bless 'em) let me work through it on my own. It wasn't until we were in the car during break - me and my Patrick and our mutual gal pal, Dawn - that I even really talked about it. I told them that I didn't think I could do my song, and Patrick told me that would be okay.

And I immediately felt relief. I should not be surprised that the guy who has always known the right thing to say to me knew the right thing in that moment, too.

I did cheat a bit by writing line cues on my hand. I even looked at it once during the first show. But other than that, I rocked it, pure and simple. (With the possible exception of my eclectic lyrics to Master of the House during the first show.) I held it together, I did my best, and it all worked out okay.

There's a choice we all make when it comes time to do something we're not sure we're capable of. I do things all the time where I have the potential to make an ass out of myself; I even came in last in a 10K not too long ago. I was totally able to laugh it off, introducing myself to the police officer behind me desperately trying to close the course. So it's not a new idea for me, but it is different when there's a stage and a spotlight and a cast of characters behind you.

I think you have an agreement with your audience when you decide to do a show. You agree not to suck. You agree to entertain. That's hard to do if you can't remember your words. So I had a decision to make: let down my friends and give up, or try. It meant risking letting the audience and my fellow cast members and the production staff and the band down, but it was worth the risk.

And it all worked out for the best.

When I was asked how I was able to turn it around, the only answer that came to me was risk-reward analysis. Sure, it would have been easier to scrap the song. But then I would have always wondered, "what if?" This way, I was able to know I gave it all I had, and if it hadn't worked out, no one was going to die. It was just a song.

And yet, so much more. In one evening, I looked my demons straight in the eye. I faced my self-doubt and told it, no; not today; thank you very much. I'll escort you out now.

That's not to say it will never happen again. But if it does, I will have knowledge to fall back on. We have tremendous power to rise above ourselves when we know there are people behind us who believe in us, love us and want the best for us.

Ever forward, my friends.

Weekends

Well first of all, shit. I haven't blogged here in over a month! Shame.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way ... on we go. What a weekend I had!

Kicked it off early with some lap swimming at Centennial Beach in Naperville. They have a few 50-meter lanes that make it super easy to get into a nice swimming groove. Pam, Jim, Linda and Meg came down to enjoy a cool workout on a hot evening, and then the five of us headed to Potter's Place for a little nosh. Lately I just cannot get enough street tacos, so this was the perfect spot for me to land.

Friday started with a trip to Raging Waves - Illinois' largest water park. I soaked up some sun with my sister at my side, and it felt awesome. Truly relaxing, even on a hot hot day in Chicagoland. We are experiencing temps these days that rival hell, so a big pool is just what I needed!

I followed up the pool with a late lunch at Bien Trucha in Geneva, with my friend Kristen. An order of esquites later (oh, heavenly corn dish, how I love you!) and I was in my blissful happy place. (Not to mention some street tacos [addicted much?] and hibiscus iced tea.) That night, my sister Pat and I met up with my friends Patrick, Javier, Mike and Jerry for a concert at River Edge Park in Aurora. What an incredible evening! The heat loosened its grip as the sun went down, and the amazing Idina Menzel took the stage

Saturday started with an early swim (sheesh, lotsa water lately!) and weight training, after which Linda and I boarded a train for the city. We caught a cab to McCormick place for the Rock and Roll Half Marathon expo and packet pickup. We had a great time, bought a few souvenirs and headed back to the 'burbs to carbo load. (Not before we realized we'd forgotten to pick up our Chill Zone passes, which would allow us private bathrooms and bag check for the race, so we had to take another cab back to the expo, and then return to the train station. Yet another adventure, for sure!)

Sunday dawned dark and early, as we met our fellow runners at 4:45 a.m. to make the trek downtown. We arrived in the city as the sun was coming up, and spent the better part of the morning running/walking/sweating/praying for sweet sweet death. (Wanna know how I did? Clique vous, sil vous plait.) After which, we drove back to the 'burbs, took a quick shower, and drove to a different burb for comfort food/lunch. Heaven On Seven serves New Orleans-style food and drink, and delights all my senses. I had Parmesiano-Reggiano Grits with Shrimp, and a mint julep; yup, heaven! And so worth it.

I was grateful to be not too far from home, and had about an hour to spare once I arrived back at Camp Clovertree before we met Dad and the fam for a little celebratory dinner for my sister Pat's birthday. When the events of the weekend were over, I collapsed, exhausted, into bed. Seriously ... pooped. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Disappointment

I was once told that 90 percent of all disappointment is the result of unrealistic expectation.

Think about that for a moment; it makes sense, doesn't it? Consider a recent disappointment. Was it one of the rare occurrences when something truly out of the ordinary happened? Or, were you hoping for something, envisioning some perfect scenario, and reality came swooping in to bitchslap you back to the everyday?

I can honestly say that for me, most of the time my disappointment is my own fault.

So it becomes a game of managing expectations. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst, as they say. I'm not one to adopt a defeatist attitude; no, never! But let's take a recent race as an example. In the sprint tri last weekend, I didn't have any hard and fast goals. I just wanted to finish happy, do my best, and perhaps do better than I did in the same race the previous year. I had followed my training plan at about 75 percent, so I knew there was an excellent chance I would reach my goals.

My expectations were realistic.

Now, if I'd said I wanted to come in under two hours - which I secretly did, but I knew I hadn't trained at that level - I would have been disappointed. But that's not the headspace I occupied. I kept myself rooted in reality.

Consider, too, when it isn't you who disappoints you, but someone else. When people disappoint us, it often hurts more, because we are completely unable to control what's happening around us. We can only manage our feelings, our expectations. So a friend fails to meet my expectations by being exactly who she is ... who she's always been. Sure, she's still an asshole (and - here's the hard lesson - probably not really a friend) but my disappointment has a lot more to do with my fervent hope that she'll behave in a way that's out of character than it does with who she is.

Who she is remains the same.

The trick is to love people where they are. I ask people to love me, train wreck and all. They can choose to do so, or not to, and that's really okay. (Unless you're my family; sorry, man, you're stuck.) If they choose to come along for the ride, they buy in to my occasional neediness, the short temper, the high expectations and the ... oh, what's the word? ... unrepentant quirkiness. (That's my nice way of saying "weird".) On the other hand, they also get unfailing support, real love straight from my heart, willingness to help out with just about anything (unless you need money or math tutoring) and acceptance. It's a pretty fair trade.

Sometimes, we're gonna disappoint people. Sometimes, we're gonna be disappointed. But if we can remember why we love people in the first place - if we're willing to love people as they are instead of how we wish they could be - I think we could go a long way toward tempering our disappointment.

And if not, my hope is that there's someone there to listen while we work through it.

Where the real damage comes from

It's hard for me to believe, from where I sit here in 2013, that we are still arguing about gay marriage.

I've been married. I didn't have a straight marriage; I just had a marriage. And that's all anyone wants - the opportunity to love and be loved, with all the rights afforded with the legal agreement that comes with marriage. But because there are men who want to enter into marriage with men, and women who wish to do so with women, society has decided their commitment isn't valid. Seems off to me, that we'd care so much.

Watching an interview the other day, one person asked the other if he thought Christ was pleased with gay couples. And I thought, if everything that displeased Christ was illegal, we'd need more cops. And the very first thing we'd have to make illegal is adultery, followed quickly by divorce.

Jesus had nothing to say on the subject of homosexuality. Nothing. The Bible says precious little about it; there is but one line in Leviticus that says "You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it is an abomination." That's it. (And don't get me started about how - if one must take one's Bible literally - then one must concede that God must be hunky-dory with lesbians.)

I'm no theologian, but I do know that there are substantially more Bible entries dealing with divorce, and even more about adultery. A quick search turned up 59 passages on divorce, and 109 on adultery, either of which is so much more than one. And the thing is, I think we get hung up on the sex part of homosexuality. We (and by "we" I don't meal all of us; I mean those who oppose the gay thing) find it icky (and a litany of other adjectives) so we rail against it. Which is our right, I suppose.

But stop saying that you're casting aside gay citizens' wishes to join into a recognized, committed relationship based on Christianity. Just admit that it has more to do with the fact that you think it's icky. Because I'm here to tell you, having my husband cheat on me and going through a divorce did more damage to me, to my soul, my spirit and my hope for my future than any gay marriage ever can.

The ultimate Fast Pass?

In the wake of stories like this, which detail how people are hiring handicapped people to gain faster access to rides at Disney World, I am just beyond words.

But that won't stop me from writing a few.

A few years ago, I noticed that Disney was renting wheelchairs to parents with children when they (Disney, not the parents) ran out of strollers. I understand why; they want to please their customers, and those customers need (or think they need; it's actually a want) a way to transport their kids on wheels through the parks. But what set my teeth on edge is that they were implying that a wheelchair is a viable choice as mode of transport. It isn't heinous, but it's a little icky. To me, at least.

So this latest bit of news - people actually hiring the handicapped for the specific purpose of using them, and handicapped folks allowing themselves to be used - has me wondering what the hell is wrong with people. Seriously.

I'm sure I've joked on a few occasions that the one "perk" of having a wheelchair-bound person in your family is that it helps you move faster through the lines at Disney. Joked about it. I certainly wasn't serious. The perks of being Mike's sister are that I get to be his sister; I get to learn joy from him. I get to watch him watch my least favorite movie, "The Wizard of Oz," with delicious glee. I get to hear him laugh, face red, eyes watering and arm swinging. I get to see him tucked into bed, hands curled under his chin, serene and sweet. Those are the fringe benefits - not the handicapped license plate, and certainly not the short lines at Disney World.

I'm not sure how Disney would handle it, but I hope they find an end to this sickening practice. In the meanwhile, I'll spend my time feeling grateful that my parents taught me how to live an ethical life.

They didn't teach it with the "do this" and "don't do that" approach; they simply lived in a way that had a positive impact on everyone around them - or they tried to do that, as often as possible. It taught us to be mindful of others, and I will always be grateful for that.

And as for the people hiring a handicapped guide for their Disney vacation ... well, I hope they get stuck on Space Mountain.

Summer for the senses

Summer is almost here. I can smell it.

Just as sure as I know winter's arrived when I smell the first snowfall, (it's distinct; it tickles the nose like an old friend) I know summer is around the corner. And it's not just my sense of smell that's delighted; no, summer gets to all of 'em. Which got me thinking ... what am I looking forward to, and which sense/s is/are most excited about it? Here's the preliminary list.

Drive-in movie/s (vision, taste)
Ravinia (hearing, vision, taste)
I want to go to each at least once! At the movies, the bright screen and film juxtaposed against an inky black sky is a treat, even if the film sucks. Ravinia, on the other hand, brings great music to your ears in the most beautiful park setting. But for me, each of these venues invites the best in food: a nighttime picnic. Rainier cherries, bread and oil, fresh peaches, homemade guac with real tortilla chips from the mercado ... that's the kind of stuff packed in my bag. And for Ravinia, we'll add a bottle of red. You in?

The beach (smell, vision, feel, taste, sound - yup, all of 'em)
Most of my beach time is spent on Geneva Lake in Lake Geneva, WI. While I know there are perfectly good beaches in Chicago, I love the resort atmosphere of Lake Geneva, and I also love that one of my besties lives up there; so I can get my beach on while curling up next to Amber and Jeremiah. And while I'm there, I will smell the Coppertone; I will see the waves crashing on the shore, the sailboats on on the water, the sun sinking into the horizon at the end of the day; I will feel the sun tickling my skin and the sand between my toes and - if I play my cards right - a little bit of seaweed slipping past my legs as I swim out to the deep water; I will taste lemonade with lavender or rosemary in it, and a perfect bratwurst; and I will listen to the water and the wind. This place is made for perfect days.

Other things in Wisconsin (taste)
My friend Dale lives there, too ... and really, all I can say is holy crap can he cook. So I hope (with 99.9 percent assurance) that this summer will bring at least one meal/bonfire combination. Also, there's a little cafe up there called Simple that has the best breakfast ever. I'm heading up there Memorial Day weekend, so I can see some - if not all - of this panning out for me very soon. Yes please.

Races (feel, sound)
I'll be running a few races this season (two of which are this weekend!) and they always bring a few distinct feelings: muscle fatigue and lungs-on-fire. There's also the feeling of complete euphoria when I cross the finish line, no matter how long it takes me. Also, I love the sounds out there - whether it's spectators or the rhythm of my feet mixed with other runners, or the occasional sound of nature that ekes through the din; there is a definite sound to races. But my favorite sound ever is the noise my friends make when I approach the finish line; that's what accomplishment sounds like!

Raging Waves (feel, taste)
Raging Waves is a huge water park out in Yorkville, and it is awesome. AWESOME. Sure, it smells like Coppertone, and it sounds good, too (great music piped in!) but nothing compares to the feeling of bobbing in waves for an afternoon, or lying back in your lounge chair and letting the day pass you by. The only thing that begins to compare with that is the taste of a Brain Freeze Float - icy blue raspberry goodness with a big ol' splurt of vanilla soft serve. Yes, please.

That's what I have so far, and I am beyond ready. What's on your list?

Dinner is served

I've been reading this book lately.

Now, please don't mistake this as a book review; it's not. I'm only on the fourth chapter. What this is, however, is a quick recap of a fantastic evening ... and an invitation to dinner.

But first, backstory. (Every good story starts with a backstory, right?) For Christmas last year, my sister Kathie gave each of us Bieritz girls (me, and sisters Pat and Jenn ... not nuns, actual sisters) a bottle of wine, and a book plate. The book plate was to be inserted in our copies of the above book, when it was finally released. The box from Amazon arrived a few weeks back, and I diligently inserted my book plate and settled in to read.

Yes, I'm still on chapter four. It takes me a long time to read, because I generally fall asleep after just a few pages. Stop judging.

My copy of the book. And my fingers. And evidence that I desperately need a mani.

It is a wonderful read. As the cover says, it is a love letter to life around the table; stories from gatherings and inspiration to strengthen relationships. It's gorgeous in word and feel. (Side note: while I love love love my Kindle, my favorite books are real books. Reading is a tactile experience. The paper feels nice!) Plus, recipes! So good. 

The author, Shauna Niequist, hosted a book release party in Deer Park, and Kathie was good enough to get our names on the guest list. The party was last night, and it was incredible. 

Author Shauna Niequist and me. I hate this photo of me, so I choose to believe it's just the angle.

The shindig was held at the new Lululemon Athletica in Deer Park. I love Lululemon; I wish they made pants big enough to accommodate my ample self, because their fabrics are just beyond. Anyway, Kath and I went to Chipotle (can you say "carnitas"? I knew you could!) for a quick bite and then made our way across the street to Lulu.

The store is gorgeous, filled with beautiful clothing for what? Working out. Running and yoga, specifically. Yes, please. (Note to self: set up a savings account for this particular addiction.) And tonight it was filled with beautiful cheeses, and fig spread and bread, and fruit. And chocolate. Good God, the chocolate.

And this; there was also this.

A bottle of red; my choice for the evening. One glass only; I'm driving.

Not to be outdone, there was this, too.

A bottle of white. Kathie absolutely adored this Sauvignon Blanc (which I am convinced means "white couch" in French.)

We mixed. We mingled. We shopped. (How often do you get to buy a new sports bra whilst drinking a glass of cab, I ask you?) And we listened to Shauna talk about writing this book, and what it means to build community. We prayed for a family wounded in the Boston bombing, and we took a few pictures.

I met Nina, the woman who wrote this blog post about the bombing and what it means to runners. I love it; it feels like she knew what I was thinking and wrote it for me. So wow, what a pleasure to meet her! I was in geeked-out-author-admiration-overload, meeting her and Shauna in the same night. Eep!

Drawing the evening to a close, Shauna read a snippet from the final chapter of Bread & Wine. It goes like this:

"This is what I want you to do: I want you to tell someone you love them, and dinner's at six. I want you to throw open your front door and welcome the people you love into the inevitable mess with hugs and laughter. I want you to light a burner on the stove, to chop and stir and season with love and abandon. Begin with an onion and a drizzle of olive oil, and go from there, anyone of a million different places, any one of a million different meals.

"Gather the people you love around your table and feed the with love and honesty and creativity. Feed them with your hands and the flavors and smells that remind you of home and beauty and the best stories yo've ever heard, the best stories you've ever lived."

So consider this your invitation. I may ask you to bring a dish to share, or to set the table, but I am poised to throw open the door and share stories. When are you free?

April Fool

This post has taken me a long time to write. Almost two weeks, in fact.

On April 1 - April Fool's Day - I came across this message on the Interwebs:

Okay, I get it; to some folks, pregnancy is no laughing matter. Okay, I'll acknowledge that you feel that way. I will also point out that lumping folks who are having trouble conceiving in with people who have buried an infant is ludicrous, in my opinion, but whatever. (In addition, how one-sided is this post? The artist refers to how awful this is for women, but she seems to forget that men are part of the equation. A woman rarely loses a child or has difficulty conceiving on her own; way to make it all about you.) (And another thing: the phrase "women who have recently experienced the death of their baby"; whaddup with that? It's either "a woman who has recently experienced the death of her baby" or "women who have recently experienced the death of their babies." Unless they all, collectively, lost one child.) But I digress. I get it; you don't want to see jokes or posts that bring to mind things that are painful. That's human nature.

It's a familiar thought to me. The first Mothers Day after Mom died brought little pings of pain every time I saw an ad or heard a commercial urging me to select the perfect present. It didn't feel insensitive on the part of everyone else in the known universe; it was simply the way the world kept turning. Over time, I (and I believe the rest of my family) found the humor in it. I particularly love the ads that state something along the lines of "It's not too late to find the perfect Mothers Day gift".

Um ... yeah, it is.

It may be human nature to not want to be confronted with those things, but it's pretty narcissistic, from where I sit.

So we should try not to offend. Okay. Let me suggest we remove the words "gay" and "retard" from our vernacular. Honestly, I think those words do more harm to a greater number of people than any April Fools joke. Maybe it's just me, but when you use the word "gay" to mean stupid or ridiculous or even funny, I'm offended. Gay people are offended. It's offensive. And don't even get me started on "retard". We use the term jokingly in my family, but even then, there's a sense of appropriateness to it. My twin brother has cerebral palsy, and in our lifetime the words we use to describe his condition have changed almost as often as I've switched my hairstyle. Handicapped, challenged, disabled, differently abled and yes ... retarded. Personally, I'm not a fan of labels, so I'm happy just to call my brother Michael. But the worlds demands a word, and if there's one thing I can guarantee, it's that whatever word you choose is going to offend someone.

A few days after April 1, I heard this commercial on the radio. It's a Jimmy John's spot (click to open a new window and play it on the YouTubes) where a homeowner calls for "freaky fast" sandwich delivery because he needs help putting out a house fire. He orders several sandwiches, and with each delivery asks the doorbell ringer to grab a bucket. Finally, the fire department arrives (not freaky fast) and asks why the homeowner didn't call them first. "I did," he says.

Well, I think if I were a firefighter (and I am a big fan of firefighters) I might be offended by this. But what really struck a chord with me is wondering if my friends Marsha and Gordon ever heard this commercial. See, years ago, their daughter's family was devastated by a house fire. The fire took the home, and most tragically killed their teenage granddaughter, Jamie. Jamie and her twin sister Jenny were my friends. Jamie had been cast as Liesl in the production of "The Sound of Music" we were rehearsing at the time. It was a horrible occurrence, and I can't imagine their pain at the time. I am certain it remains with them to this day. So, should Jimmy John et al refrain from this type of commercial, because it might offend or hurt someone?

Everything we experience occurs within our personal lens. What is funny to me might be incredibly offensive or even hurtful to you. Granted, I admit to having a truly twisted sense of humor (as evidenced by the blog I once started with my faux-bro, after both our mothers died; we chose to share it with no one for a reason) but even I get offended from time to time.

So what's the answer? I'll be honest; I have no earthly idea, and I'm not sure there is one. Sometimes, we're just going to be offended. To expect the world to revolve around us and consider our feelings is pretty one-sided; every person as an issue (or two, or five) that brings up difficult emotions. That shouldn't mean that we get to tell others what not to do.

All things Irish

My ex-husband was Irish.

Well, I suppose he still is.

Anyway, with St. Patrick's Day over the weekend, it gave me a wee opportunity to reflect (again?) on the past and where I am and why it's good.

This new me - Maggie 2.0 - is really who I am now. The me who was married to him was so long ago, she barely registers. Divorce was the price I paid to gain a life.

And so, surrounded by images of Guinness and shamrocks and pots o'gold, I gave a grateful thought to that guy. Grateful, you ask?

Yep. I'm grateful to that idiot for moving on to wife No. 3, and allowing me to grow into authentic Maggie. So much growth over the past seven years. Or is it six? Or eight? I don't even remember ... and it doesn't really matter.

I don't need to count, because the more time there is between me and my marriage, the less it counts. It's not that it didn't happen; it's just that it has no impact on my life now.

So, I guess the Irish luck is the one thing I got to keep in the divorce.

That ... and myself.

After the half, home

Well, I did it. I've completed my second half marathon.

And man, did it suck.

For the full report, you'll have to check my health and wellness blog, here. But for now, there are two things on my mind.

1. You have to get out of your own way. I can't tell you how many times over the past few months someone has mentioned that they think what I'm doing is extraordinary. And it is; I know that not everyone will have the gumption/moronic tendancies/commitment to run 13.1 miles. I also know that if I can do it, quite literally anyone can. You have to make up your mind, then you have to create a plan. Then comes the hard part. You have to get out of your own way and carry out the plan.

2. I am not obsessed. That's the second most common remark I hear from people when they hear about my fitness plans. "You really are obsessed, aren't you?" This often comes from people who are also obsessed, but their obsessions usually include the real housewives of somewhere, or some other "hobby" in which one can indulge in front of a television screen. So if, in their opinion, I am obsessed, here's all I have to say on the subject: mine is saving my life. Yours is killing you.

And now I'm home, getting ready to plan for my next big race, and another half marathon after that. I truly love my sport.

Valentine

On Valentine's Day, I find thoughts of love still swirling about my head. I'm remembering great love that has danced through my life. I'm remembering the pain of heartbreak. And I'm remembering - with an intense sense of gratitude - the abundance of love in my present life.

It isn't love of romantic notions. There are no hearts and flowers. And yet, there is more love, greater love, than has ever been part of my life when I've been distracted by romance.

Beyond grateful, that's me. For the love of family and friends. For my health, my sense of joy. For Irish cheese and cold water. For air and wonder and coffee and music and dance.

For life.

It wasn't always this way. When I was married, Valentine's Day came and went like any other day, and after we split up (which happened for me on Valentine's Day, oddly enough) it was even worse. The constant reminders of happy couples made me want to poke myself in the eye. Repeatedly. With a dirty red-hot poker.

But that was 2006. As the years passed, a new Maggie began to emerge. So distinctly different from any of the other versions, because this one was truly content with being alone. Oh, no ... scratch that. Not alone; rather, willing to live without romantic entanglements in order to establish herself. And holy shit, have I ever done that.

I have (as the graphic above attests) followed my heart wherever it's been willing to take me. Most of the time, it begs me to quicken its cadence, so I take to the gym or the pool or the trail. I have literally transformed my heart (and my body) through taking care of it. I am more youthful now than I was seven years ago, at almost-40. Today, I'm careening toward 50 with a younger attitude than ever, because I have followed my heart.

I've followed it to a new job. I've followed it to a new (temporary) home with my sister, Pat. I've followed it toward new friendships that feel like family.

And so, love. In my single-ness, I'm better able to accept love, it seems. But I don't think it's my single-ness that gets the credit. No, I think my single-ness has allowed me to know, accept and fall madly in love with myself, and that has made me better able to love others.

I think that's a lovely thing.

Commitment

That's a $5 word for ya - commitment. It's one of my favorite words.

In life, each day, we have lots of opportunities to commit. There are oodles of decisions we make, day in, day out ... and each requires some level of commitment.

This week, for example, I have made the following commitments:

• That stop light at the corner of 34 and Orchard? The light turned yellow as I approached, but I'd already committed to going through. I did not run the red, but it was leaning toward orange by the time I crossed. If I'd slammed on the brakes this morning, there's a better-than-even chance I would have slid through on a thin veil of ice. I made the right commitment.
• Lunch? Lots of options. I was stuck between the pear and brie salad, and the caprese panini. In order to help the line move along, I committed to the panini. (And I'm damn glad I did, to tell you the truth!)
• Wednesday night at the gym, I had seven miles on my training plan. It was speedwork, which meant I was to do the following: 
• Jog slowly for a one-mile warm-up.
• Jog a little faster for a half mile.
• Run at a specific pace for one mile.
• Jog for a half mile.
• Run at the previous specific pace for one mile.
• Jog for a half mile.
• Run at the previous specific pace for one mile.
• Jog for a half mile.
• Jog slowly for one mile. 
• I started out feeling strong, so I ran my run/walk intervals (which I call "race-day practice") for the first six miles. And that's when I began to waver. "Self," I said, "you can just walk the last mile; after all, you've already done more at the specific pace than the plan required." But I wasn't buying it. Why? Because I'd committed to the run.

Commitment. It matters. Whatever you do, do it because you are committed to it. In relationships, be committed to the other person. (This works whether it's a romantic relationship or not; be committed to all those who matter to you - friends, spouses, co-workers, children, pets, etc. They all deserve commitment.) If you feel strongly about taking care of yourself (and I hope you do), commit to it. Want to be really good at your job? Start with commitment.

I can't recall of a single time excellence was achieved through half-assed commitment, can you?

They don't make 'em like they used to

I hear there's a football game happening this weekend.

At the risk of sounding like an elderly woman (oh, shut up), times sure have changed. Back in '85, I knew who all these guys were. That may not sound like a big deal, but here's the gig: I never watched a game. The team was full of characters, guys who just generally wanted to have a good time, and weren't afraid to look like total dweebs to raise a little money for charity. For real - 98 percent of these guys are completely unnatural on camera, and they don't care; they're having fun.

Can you imagine a team doing this today? I sure can't. Maybe that's because I don't know any of the players on any team. (really; up until last year I thought the Bears quarterback was Jake Utler) but isn't that part of the problem? When players are known to non-fans these days, it's more often because they've done something criminal or otherwise stupid. So go ahead. Eat some wings, watch Beyonce entertain her damn self over halftime, and catch some sweet sweet commercials. I'll be longing for the days of Sweetness and Speedy Willie; not sure if you know this, but he's world class.

Food is a four-letter word beginning with "f"

And it is good.

This weekend, I travelled to Lake Geneva for some much-needed relaxation, a change of scenery, and to visit with friends.

I also ate some unbelievable food.

I arrived in late afternoon, because I was very procrastinatey in getting my run in on Saturday morning. So I got to Amber and Jeremiah's around 4 and hung out with them for awhile. Then it was time to visit Dale & Candy and have a few cocktails and some nosh.

He had eaten all the softshell crab by the time I arrived.

We had a great visit, actually had a civil conversation about politics, and had lots of laughs over old photographs. I got home far too late and woke up far too early, but it was nice to have a whole day stretching out with nothing planned.

Except breakfast.

Here's where things get interesting. A little place called Fiddelsticks in Elkhorn, Wisconsin ... I am in love. Our friend Laura met us, and at the restaurant I ran into a friend from the gym. (Odd, right?) I ordered the Benedict of the Day.



It was smoked chicken atop jalapeno cornbread, with the usual poached egg and hollandaise (translation: "Fat Sauce") on top. Bliss on a plate, served with breakfast potatoes.

I would marry this breakfast.

The rest of the weekend wasn't awful, food-wise. Stuffed peppers for dinner, an entire package of Toffeefay candy, the occasional latte. But I am sure that breakfast is why the scale didn't do anything significant this week.

Sigh. I miss that plate of food.

Grace

It is so much easier to give forgiveness and grace to others than it is to give it to ourselves.

I'm pretty good at coming clean with what goes on in the darkest corners of who I am. There are a handful of people with whom I have been raw and honest, authentic and forthcoming, with the real me. I'm an amalgam of a lot of thing, good and bad, and those who know me best know it all.

And yet, they forgive ... even when the bad is directed at them.

So why do we hold grace away from ourselves, like a carrot on the end of a stick we'll never reach? I don't have the answer. But I'm working on it.

Aging aunt seeks answers

You might recall a month or so ago when I wrote about my nephew's baby, Alexandria. She was welcomed to our world three months before she was due, and sadly she left us as quickly as she arrived. She died yesterday, in the arms of her dad.

As a tiny preemie, she developed an infection in her intestines that her little body just couldn't fight. My nephew Alex, and his girlfriend Cameron, had only about six weeks to be parents to this precious child, and I am proud of the parents the became during that time. I'll be honest: I didn't have a lot of faith in that. They are so young - still teenagers, forgodsake. What are they thinking?

So I went about my business, in my own judgmental way. See, that's the thing with judgment: you don't always realize you're doing it until you're proven wrong.

If you know me at all, you know that admitting I am wrong is my least favorite thing to do. I would rather have a simultaneous root canal/mammogram than admit I am wrong. But when it comes to this ... this precious life and these young but wise parents ... I got it all wrong.

When the time came to make tough decisions - choosing to let L'il Al go rather than keep her hooked to machines that might allow her to live but would most definitely result in a short, painful life - Alex and Cam chose to let her slip away. I admire them for that, because I'm not sure I could do it.

And here's where I divulge my own feelings, because it's my blog. First, I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I didn't trust Alex and Cam to be parents. That I was angry with them for getting pregnant in the first place, and for not putting Ali up for adoption in the second place. I'm ashamed that I didn't walk my own talk; I didn't lead with love.

I feel guilty. Guilty because I didn't meet her. I saw photos, I kept up to date on her growth, but I couldn't work my schedule around to make it up to Park Ridge to meet my own great niece. In order to go, I needed to be with either Alex or Cameron, and it was hard to make that happen. I should have tried harder, because when time ran out I was sick and couldn't go. I had a song picked out to sing to her, I knew which book I was going to read to her, but she died before I had the chance. I will need to find a way to make that right in my soul. I have no idea how I'm going to manage that, and I fear I will always feel broken because I failed her.

Sometimes, I feel angry. Why is it that things that seem to come so easily for others come so hard for my family? A man as young as our Alex should never have to be as strong as my nephew is having to be. We lost mom before we were ready; two of us sisters experienced the heartache of divorce; my twin brother has cerebral palsy; now this loss? Yes, it makes me angry. And, as my sister Jenn reminds me, cancer rears its ugly head for the Bieritz clan more often than we'd like. Mom dealt with it twice and it killed her. Dad and Jenn have both gone the chemo route to hold leukemia at bay. Anyway, I'd like our family to catch a break, thankyouverymuch. And yet I know that's ridiculous; it seems like we have a lot to bear, but I'd still not trade it for another life, or another family. It's made us who we are, and we are damn strong.

I also feel an intense gratitude for my family. I have always said that when the chips are down, you should never bet against us. Over the past month and a half, I have watched my family become even more amazing than I knew. I've watched Alex manage his work, his spiritual growth and being a father. He has done it mostly with grace, and I'm so proud of him. I've seen the rest of us become more accepting, and rally behind one another.

I don't know what I'm supposed to learn from all of this. I may never figure it out. But there is something I know for sure. L'il Al is already having a ripple effect. The people who know her story are living in the moment, with the realization that nothing is guaranteed. The moment may be all we have.

I will always wish that I had made an opportunity to have a moment with her. I take comfort in the knowledge that while she was on the earth, she knew great love from great people. And when my days on earth are over, I will finally have my chance to sing to her.

In happier times, Alexandria JoyAnne Adams rests in the arms of her father, Alex.

Resolute

Okay. I made some.

Resolutions, that is.

This year, I took a different approach. I'm not focused on health or weightloss; instead, I'm working on being a better person, all around. In the not-too-distant past, I was given some unsolicited advice that made me doubt myself. The incident gave me that horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach that said, "hey, you're not smart enough to make decisions for yourself."

But it did give me the opportunity to reflect and realize that I do that. I give advice, and/or opinions/ all the time. Without being asked. Unsolicited, and perhaps unwelcome. So in 2013, I'm going to try not to do it.

It'll be a challenge, to be sure. I may spend a bit of time being silent when otherwise I'd be running my mouth! (And let it be noted that this does not pertain to my Facebook page; I often give snippets of advice there, and that won't change.) I think it will be a worthwhile exercise, and in the end I expect to discover that I've listened more, allowed things to be less about me (imagine that!) and strengthened friendships in the process. We'll see how it goes.

I'm also going to drink more tea. That one'll be easy.

All I want for Christmas ...

The world is a ridiculous place right now. In the wake of national tragedy, people are - as people often do - acting like morons. So what's a girl to do?

Think about cool stuff, that's what. It's time for the inaugural "Things Maggie Wants for Christmas" wish list. This year, on Planet Maggie, I will dream of these things under the tree.

Either one; I'm not particular.

Frankly, I can't believe I've made it this far without getting one for myself. I came close this year, and then I fell off my own fiscal cliff. So, Santa ... please?

A new race? Why, yes, thank you.

The Soldier Field 10 Miler is on my race bucket list, and this year is the year for me. I know what you're thinking. "But, Mags, you're not even a football fan!" And you're right, I'm not. But this race is a unique opportunity to finish 10 miles on the 50 yard line at Soldier Field. I've never been to Soldier Field, and I think this would be a completely groovy way to see it for the first time. Besides, a 10-mile race in May will keep me training strong through the spring. So ... yeah. Registration for this sucker under the tree would be fab, thanks.

These; size 9.

I am in love with Frye boots. I have wanted these since about eighth grade. Santa just doesn't take me seriously.

It's an ugly watch, yeah. But it's also a run computer and heartrate monitor. 

It's a watch. It keeps track of my heartrate. And it knows where I am. This is important to a runner, because it also knows how far I've gone, how fast I'm running, and when I'm sleeping or awake. (Scratch that last part; just making sure you're paying attention.) It's actually a somewhat important piece of information for a runner, and much as I'd love one, I haven't gotten around to getting one for myself yet.

For leftovers. Glass, because plastic is evil.

I can't tell you how often I reach for something to put leftovers in, and it's plastic. Which is okay, unless the leftovers are warm. Or if, God forbid, I want to heat up the leftovers in the container. Enter, glass containers.

That's it; the all-encompassing wish list for 2012. Five things I will buy myself just as soon as I win the lottery. As for world peace - which I desperately want, and I think it's on everyone's list - I will just have to work on it in my own little way. I'll smile at people who cut me off in traffic and I'll try to remember that everyone has a story, and the only one I really know is my own.

A week from today, the present-opening will be over and we'll be back to our "normal" lives. And yes, there will be more sadness, fear will grip us once again and we will wonder how to go on. But we don't need to know how; we just need to do it.

Ever forward! Happiest of holidays to you all.

The holiday blues

I hesitate to write this. It's difficult, sometimes, to be raw and honest with yourself. It's even more difficult to be raw and honest with anyone who might happen upon this post. But it's also something that I think needs to be said, and needs to be shared. So here goes.

I spent the better part of this week wallowing in what I consider to be a state of  low-grade state depression. I called it "the blues", I called it "a funk", but we know what that translates to: depression. I've been prone to that horrid beast from time to time over the years, and I recognize it when it knocks on my door.

Back when I was in the early stages of divorce, my doc put me on an antidepressant to help me get through. It was a godsend; with good friends and a little chemical help, I survived that tough time. When I started exercising, my body began to offer up its own, natural assistance, so I was able to slowly wean myself off the meds. Thankfully, I've been able to regulate my moods naturally since then; I have only rare periods of feeling depressed. But this week, it hit me, head on.

I was ill-prepared for it, because hell, it's Christmas, the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! But there it was, anyway - the beast that caused me to look with disfavor upon everything. It didn't help that a trusted friend offered me unsolicited advice without bothering to ask any questions - like whether I wanted advice, or if I'd thought about things from another perspective (I had, and that knowledge would have changed the tone of the convo entirely). Anyhoo, here I was, swamped in sadness and wanting nothing more than a way to let it go.

In those moments when I felt like I'd never stop crying, I had the presence of mind to remember that those feelings would pass. I did not allow myself to go home and eat raw cookie dough, which is totally what I wanted to do. Instead, I went home and headed out for a run, in the fresh air. It helped, though I still felt weepy. It must be noted that my friends and family did (for the most part) exactly what I needed from them. They listened, made me laugh, opened up the safe airspace for the "airing of grievances", and checked in with me, offering a touchpoint of reality to ground me and surround me with love, which I desperately needed.

The truth of it is, sometimes it happens. Sometimes, sadness just is, and you need to give yourself the grace to get to the other side of it.

Today I woke up in a different frame of mind. Incredibly, I managed to not let the sadness get to me, and I found a way out of the sadness. I let myself feel it; I let myself cry and sleep and wallow, and then - in the form of my own little holiday miracle - the fog lifted. It took a few days, and during that time I remained focused on my many blessings, my goals and my big awesome ideas.

I don't feel like a new person. I feel like authentic Maggie, with an easy smile and a joyful heart.