It's not you, it's me.

Today I did something I've never done before.

Don't worry no laws or commandments were broken.

I walked out halfway through an aerobics class. It wasn't because I was injured, tired, or lazy. I just didn't like it. Let's make this clear: I like exercise. I like sweating and moving and pushing myself. I just don't like doing it in a room with a bunch of other people. And as I was grapevining around the room I suddenly realized that there was no reason for me to do this. So I left. I took my water bottle and went to the treadmill. And boy did I have a good run. Because that was exactly what I wanted to do.

When I was in high school, I "played" volleyball. By playing I mean I put on knee pads and served really well, and of course was an 5'11" intimidation force at the net. Until they got a look at my 2 inch vertical. Anyway, I hated it. I hated the coach. I didn't like the drills. Team sports and I don't do well because even if I am nowhere near the ball, I am almost certain that everything is my fault. I am too much of an internalizer to handle team competition. We were in a playoff game, and if we won we would head to the Regionals. Everyone was cheering, and hoping. Me? I was on the sidelines praying we would lose, because that would mean the season was over. Suddenly I thought, "Why am I doing this to myself?" We lost. And I turned in my kneepads. And yet still, I have led a fairly productive life.

I too often sign up, join in, and play along because I am certain that I should. I should like something. I should be good at something. But, what if I don't? Aren't there plenty of people who like volleyball? Can't some other section of the female population handle the quilting demands of the world? I certainly hope so. I am all for stretching, striving, and growing. But, if I don't want it, I'll hate myself for failing at it. If I want it, that is a whole different animal. If I want it, failure is a part of the process. If I want it, I'm in it for the long haul. If I want it, then I will make it happen.

So, I'm sorry Body Attack teacher. You are a very nice person who clearly loves group exercise. But, I'm a solo show when it comes to sweating. I have lots to learn and offer, but I'll learn and offer more if I do it my way, rather than the way I think I should. And the same goes for you I'm guessing. So, consider this our permission slip to let go of the "should" projects and embrace the "I've always wanted to. . . " ones. This will be much more fun.

Blowing my cover.

I am blatantly flawed.

There. I said it.

I thought that perhaps this was a practically invisible blog, glimpsed sporadically by good friends and my husband. Actually, I'm fairly certain he never reads it. So, when I post melodramatic statements about sweeping changes of life and diet, I have the feeling I'm talking to myself. Then I got in line tonight for the dessert spread at a church activity and several people mention my new sugar free life. . . which actually hasn't been so sugar free lately. I cringe. My plan to enjoy cookies and brownies in blissful anonymity while resolving to make them my last crumpled. I shrugged it off and got some cookies anyway.

I try to be pretty honest here. I'm not looking to build myself up as an expert on anything whatsoever. I'm just looking to build myself up however the Lord wants me built. I am striving to be filled with the pure love of Christ and that means some renovations in my soul, some sweeping of corners to make room for the light and love I crave. It won't be easy, neat, or quick. But in the end, it will be. You're welcome to come along for the ride, just don't expect perfection and I think we'll get along fine. We can renovate together.

Run With Patience

". . and let us run with patience that race that is set before us."
Hebrews 12:1

It was my first 10K. My first race ever. I had decided to run the Cooper River Bridge race in Charleston, SC because my mom and I love Charleston. Apparently I wasn't the only one. Turns out the Cooper River Bridge Run is one of the biggest 10K races in the country. So I show up in my nifty new socks to a crowd of about 20,000. Playing eager beaver, I jump to the front, right behind the Kenyan track team, ready-ish for what was coming. The gun sounded and we were off. Well everyone else was off, I was mostly being passed. Again. And again. It was depressing. In my struggle to keep up and save face I ended up running almost the entire thing. My nifty new socks were too thick and burned my feet. But, I finished a 10K and felt like the queen of the world. Until the next day when my lower body revolted and should I have been privy to any national secrets, anyone could have broken me by making me sit down and stand up twice within an hour.

I kept racing. And I've gotten faster, stronger, but most importantly---smarter. I've learned about training, tempo runs, ice packs, and carb-loading. And I've learned one very important thing about races: A little thing called pacing. Remember those Kenyans? Right behind them were the "amateurs" aiming for about a 5-6 min. mile pace. My pace at that point was probably about 12 minutes. I cringe to think how annoyed all those seasoned runners must have been, dodging the pudgy beginner who didn't know about lining up according to your pace. I've learned a lot since that first race about pacing. . . and only a little of it is about running.

I don't run with music. I run with my thoughts. I run with my problems. I find my rhythm and then I drum along, sorting through the puzzles in my brain. I don't run to win or even compete. I have never won any type of anything in any race I've ever run. And I doubt I ever will, unless I organize my own race and throw away any registrations in my age group. All my medals say "finisher" and I doubt they'll ever say anything else. But, yet I keep running. Running is my race and when I do it my way, I am better.

I trained for all of one week for my last half marathon. I was a bandit, asked by my friend to run for her because she hadn't trained at all. My running had been spotty at best, not having run more than 3 miles in several months at least. But, my curiosity got me. Could I do it? Had I gotten to a point where I could run a half marathon with a week of training? I decided to go for it. Still, I had learned a thing or two about my body; specifically about the knee part of my body, and I knew that if I pounded out 13 miles with no training, I would shatter my knees and set my running back for weeks. I humbly accepted that a run/walk plan would be the way to do it. I made my plan: 3 minutes run/1 minute walk. . . repeat. I knew that this would be very hard for me to do. I am obstinate about pain--somehow thinking I am a less of a person without it. And I hate, really hate, walking if anyone around me is running. But, I also wanted to do a half marathon and knew that this was the only way I was going to do it. So, I set my timer, took some advil, and ate some pasta.

It was a beautiful race day, and I was eager to see what my body could do. I told myself I could run the first 10 minutes, but after that I would enforce the 3:1 plan. It was hard. I got passed, and I got passed by a pregnant woman. But, cuing my inner monologue, I reminded myself that I had no idea how much she had trained, that the only body I knew was my own, and if I wanted to finish, I had to do it my way. And I did finish. I felt great. My legs felt sore, but strong, and my knees were very very proud of me. I had run my race, my way, at my pace.

If only I could live my life the way I ran that race. I would take it in chunks, recognizing that the only life I know and can control (kind of) is my own. We each have our own race to run, our own children to raise, our own goals to reach. I don't run to perform, but how often do I let my "performance" dictate what I do? I want to be a fun, kind, patient, creative mother. But, do I want that because I believe that will help my children now, or because that is how I want them to remember me? At times I am driven by what others will think of what I do/think/read/eat/say rather than just being. I lose trust in my own pace. I am faster today than I was when I first started running. And I plan on getting faster. But I am not getting faster to beat anyone. I am getting faster because I like getting faster. My pace is my own. If I throw out expectations, real and assumed, trusting that I am a good enough person to do things my own way, even if I never get another compliment, then I think I can find a peaceful rhythm that will get me to the end strong, maybe a little sore, but very very proud.

Happy Running.

And The Official Word For 2011 is. . . .

REJOICE!!!

Rejoice more. . . and fear less.

Rejoice in my body.

Rejoice in my family.

Rejoice in prayer.

Rejoice in lessons to learn.

Rejoice in toddler hugs, preschool crafts, and 1st grader imaginations.

Rejoice in a hot husband.

Rejoice in offering all I have and then turning the rest over to the Lord.

Rejoice more. . . and worry less.

"Rejoice, O My Heart."

2 Nephi 4:30

When I read this I realized that, for me, 2010 was not full of rejoicing, and not because there wasn't fodder for it. It was because I was too busy wondering about the next stage that I wouldn't look around and relish this one. I was so busy freaking out about my body and my weight, that everything went the exact opposite way I wanted it to. But this year, I am going to rejoice. I am going to write. I am going to play. I am going to live and love and take whatever comes with a deep breath and a smile. Or at least I am going to try.

Conquering Contradiction

Humans are complex creatures. We crave vacations, but quickly itch for routine. We want to be healthy, happy, and strong. . . . and sometimes weak, weepy, and alone. At times we have several identities battling it out inside us, each one scratching for the top position. Am I a wife first? What about a mother? And sometimes I need to be a sister, a daughter, a teacher, a comforter, or a drill sergeant. When am I just I? Identities are tricky things. I find myself caught in a tug of war with two contradictory identities. On one hand, there is the Morgen that decided to be valedictorian when she was in the 8th grade, and did it. She ran a marathon, finished grad school and had a baby in two years, teaches early morning seminary, homeschools, and finds time to scratch out a story here and there. That is an accomplished, ambitious Morgen. Then there is the other side of the coin. This is the Morgen that would eat a pan of brownies if left alone with it in the wrong mood. This is the Morgen that resolves over and over to stop biting her nails but nibbles at the first stressful moment. This is the Morgen that looks at every other woman in the room and counts the way they are better than her. I hate it when that Morgen wins.
So, I am at an impasse. I am determined to slowly, but completely align myself with the ambitious Morgen. Sometimes I get very afraid of really being healthy, really being disciplined, or truly meeting my goals. Why do we let fear stop us? Maybe the other identity is more comfortable. The "two roads" diverge and the one well traveled is so much easier to wander down. But, I want the difference. I don't like where the well-traveled path leads, and whenever I choose the other path, no matter how briefly I wander down before getting nervous, I am always always happier. So, today I take a step down the road less travelled and trust that I will enjoy "all the difference."

Good Enough

I was probably eleven or twelve when I first cried about being fat. We’d gone to see a doctor and he spoke to mother about my weight, gruffly warning her that I was going to be obese. I don’t remember saying anything on the way home, I only clearly remember sitting on the deck when we got home, sobbing, and asking my mother “why God made me fat.” She didn’t have an answer for me. Probably because there wasn’t one.

I’ve since come to believe that God didn’t make me fat. . . food did. And I also have realized that I wasn’t really all that fat. I wasn’t slight by any means, but the middle school taunts created an image in my head of myself as a bloated, disgusting, ugly, fat thing. I always wanted to be skinny and pretty, I just couldn’t do it. I was the fat girl. Smart, funny, blessed with great skin and a killer set of cheekbones, but fat. Every once in awhile, I’d get to a point of total self disgust and vow to give up this or that, and exercise this much. Guess how well that went. I tried countless plans, ambitiously taking hideous “before” pictures and gearing up to finally be pretty if I could just learn to like running.

And then one day, through a process I couldn’t really outline, I woke up and looked in the mirror and realized that I was just fine, thank you very much. I decided I was pretty darn good looking, hips and all. And it was at that moment that I began to lose weight. I stumbled across a plan that looked promising. I signed up and began. And I succeeded. I lost sixty pounds, having three babies in the process and losing baby weight plus a little more each round. The difference was that it came from a place of acceptance, not disdain.

I began to see food as fuel, instead of entertainment. I wrote down what I ate and became aware of my body and how it felt when it ate what. Then, I began to move. I had always dreamed of running a marathon, but then would remember that I hated running. Most people would see that as an impediment. So, I decided to go out and run until I didn’t like it, and then I’d stop and walk. I put zero pressure on myself. That’s the place of acceptance talking. I wasn’t in a race to become a different person, just a journey to be a better one. So, the first time I went out I probably ran 30 seconds, then walked the rest of the way. Bit by bit, I began to enjoy the running portions more. I ran/walked my first 10K in 2002 and ran my first marathon in 2005. Running has become a sort of meditation for me, a place I never dreamed I’d reach on that first “jog.”

In the years since I began to change my body and my lifestyle, I’ve had several peaks and valleys. I reached the jean size that I had once thought would be the pinnacle of success and beauty. But I rarely feel successful or beautiful; I still somehow always yearn to be a little skinnier, a little stronger, a little more beautiful. When I hit low points, when food suddenly takes over my life again, I feel terrible about myself and wonder how I can get back to that good place again, that place where I relish the good feeling of healthy eating and steady exercise. I have learned though, that those feelings don’t create self worth, they follow it.

I am realizing that the idea that I’ll be good enough when I lose ten more pounds, or finally give up sugar, or can run a 5K in under 29 minutes is going to destroy me. I am good right now. I was good 60 pounds ago. I am happier now and grateful to have lost that weight. I don’t know where my life would be if I hadn’t turned that healthy corner. The fact that I did turn that corner when I did proves I was good then. And I am good now. That I consistently yearn to be better proves that I am good. And I’ll keep getting better.

Zumba Revelations

This last weekend was a gal's weekend with my mom and sisters down at the beach. It was Latin Fest at Virginia Beach and our hips were groovin' to Latin tunes pretty much the whole weekend. On Saturday morning I went on my standard long Saturday jog then hit the waves. It was June and it was beautiful and the water was. . frigid. But, I'd come to the beach and I was going to play in some waves,darnit. Everyone was kind of doing their own thing so I was all on my own, no kids to lather or buckets to lug. So after wading in a bit I took the plunge and quickly hollered out to anyone who would listen, "I AM ALIVE!" Whoo. It was quite a rush. Then I frolicked and dove and swam and really felt the joy of a strong, whole body. Then came Zumba. An hour of shimmying, kicking, hip-popping joy. If I'd been in a dance club as opposed to a big open field full of women in workout clothes, it might have bordered on inappropriate. But, as it was, all I felt was joy and movement and the thrill of having a body that in one morning had ran, swam, and danced. The final zumba instructor that took it home was a pistol. She grooved and shook pretty much everything God gave her and gave us all permission to have a wonderful time doing the same. And the best thing? She was so far from perfect. She jiggled and wobbled, and there wasn't a firm six-pack in sight. But who cared? Noone there, that's for sure. . and apparently she didn't either. It was liberating to watch her and to feel some of my own insecurities shake out as well. Who cares if I don't look like the girl on the cover of Runner's World? I have hips that groove and legs that run and the gumption to jump into very cold water. Who needs a six pack to "glorify God in your body"? Not me. Bring on the music.