Resurrection

I was recently asked a simple yes-or-no question: "Do you have a blog?"

I intended to begin the answer with the usual qualifications, stipulations, & gesticulations, but instead I hemmed. Then I hawed. Next, I stammered, muttered, cleared my throat, and when I finally opened my mouth, the word "yes" came out of its own accord. Even a bad blog is a blog. "I do."

Thank God I wasn't axed why I have a blog or questioned about the kind of tripe that passes for a post.

The resurrection post is here at last. It could barely be called a claim of ownership-more of a failed denial, really-as if someone entered the room demanding, "who farted?" and casting about in a panic I saw no one else there, not even a dog. Yep. I have ay uh, ahem, a blog.

Now that everybody knows, I may as well post something.

Three days ago I ran in a marathon. I completed the Chicago marathon. I even got a finisher's medal, along with 33,XXX others. I wore it the entire day on Monday: partly out of pride, partly so as not to be thought drunk since I staggered all over the place. This was my second marathon in the past 11 months. Marathoning hurts. It's a very satisfactory species of pain, however, as it is inextricably wed to a sense of accomplishment.

I'm taking ancient Greek this term and in what we have translated to date, one of the recurring themes is "what is beautiful(noble/good) is difficult" or "the good path is not easy." You get the idea.

Thirty-three thousand people turned out to run 26.2 miles. Some smaller number of people made the attempt, but failed. The largest number of people lined the streets and cheered, held up signs, looked individuals in the eye and said, "You're looking great! You can make it! Go for it!" I saw signs that said, "We love you, Chip!" or "We're SO proud of you Amy!" and of course, "You are ALL Kenyans!" I was on the verge of tears because some stranger looked me in the eye and said, "Keep running! Only three more turns and you're there!" I would consider it a favour not to get bumped in the shoulder if I encountered the same person walking down the sidewalk. So why does he care? Who am I that she is cheering for ME? What is it about this run that gets thousands of people on their feet, screaming and clapping, hoping a runner will reach out and give a high-five?

If marathoning is hard, the rest of life seems impossible. In the days of blog-stagnation, I visited my sister and brother-in-law in South Carolina. My sister is a mother. 26.2 miles of a Sunday morning is a cake-walk. Mothering is 24/7. I can barely take care of my self and she's looking after three others--two of whom crap their pants on a daily basis! There's nobody giving her Gatorade along the way, either.

What if we all gave each other marathoner's encouragement? To the bagger at the check-out: C'mon! Only a loaf of bread and a bag of tortilla chips left! You got it in the bag! (high five)

Just one more paragraph to go! You're gonna get this post done! (crowd roars)

Emboldened by the cheers, I surmise that it is possible that there is some link here, some connection between limping my way across the Chicago finish line and resurrecting an erstwhile defunct blog.

You're gonna make it! (high five)