I've been royally uninspired to write as of late.
Not sure why.
There's no drama.
Schedule is wildly busy.
I'm not sitting down here with much to say.
I love March and the days that get longer and provide more room and light to roam and discover.
And the Jasmine, the Jasmine has come out to play. It's everywhere and it's a free fragrance to brighten your day.
Los Angeles doesn't have seasons but my seasons in LA are the Jasmine in March, the bright purple Jacarandas in May, the Santa Anas in late September and October and the rains - sporadic from December through February.
I love LA. I love the seasons when I can tap into them. They are subtle and shy here. Not like the east coast or midwest where seasons bloom voraciously, calling attention to each turn of the calendar like a bull in a china shop. I love that term. It sounds like something my mother would say.
Our bodies have internal seasons. Women can mark this with their cycle. Men have cycles too. It isn't marked with a receipt from CVS but they have em too. I love our bodily seasons and how we react to what's happening in the air.
We have more energy in Spring and Summer, retreat a little in Fall and Winter. Our insides respond too and those responses are harder to gauge and another blog altogether.
When I started personal training over a year ago, I went back into my marathon training mode, lifting, running. I live by the beach too. The beach is my fitness and yoga laboratory. Anyone who ever trains with me or takes my yoga classes and gets to experience the quirky poses that seem like they are coming from out of left field can now come to know they are practiced and inspired by (the years of training and tradition of yoga and...) the playtime I allow myself when I go to the ocean.
Something about it. Once I'm there, with my ipod shuffle filled with inspiring tunes, lightly gripping my waist, I feel free to be me and explore whatever physical movement I decide to explore and share.
During the last year I was 'diagnosed' with elite runners disease. Oh, doc, you do flatter. My personal best marathon time was a bashful 3:46. But alas, I run...a lot. And with that running comes, well a shift in my body. My 'cycles' as they were are not as planned monthly like a normal woman could predict. They are now more like rain in LA, completely unpredictable and even when it is, most likely the rain will pass us by and move east. I feel bad for the weather correspondents here. Traffic is more worthy of an update here than clouds and sun.
I had four 'seasons' in 2008 and 2009 is starting out about the same.
Last week I went on one of my fun and exploratory runs.
I jump a lot, hurdle, play, interval all over the gosh darn sand and esplanade. It's the most fun for me. I feel like I can fly.
I was doing one of my intervals where I jump up on to the curb and butt kick with my opposite leg. Great cardio boost for the heart in between just running or walking.
I did this for a good 1/2 mile. Then I jumped up on the curb and my right foot slipped right off causing me to fall right down on my knees and hands.
It took me about 20 seconds to get up and situate. There was no one around. I don't know how I feel about this. Good 'cause it's embarrassing and yet I wasn't really embarrassed. I got up to make sure everything was still working. It was. I looked down at my knees and there was blood everywhere and a stinging sensation that, after I saw it, resonated through my whole body. It's amazing when you see blood or a cut, that's when it hurts. I continued to hop as opposed to run and went to the nearest bathroom. I rinsed my cuts and began running again. I just wanted to get home.
It was too much to run so I paused and thought to myself that if I pushed myself, it would just be bad.
When I got home, I ran a bath of epsom salts and downed three advil per the advice of my older sis.
I tried to run the following day and my knees just wouldn't make it a mile and my energy was low.
The next day, I had my season.
I can't gauge when it happens now but it makes sense, the pain, the fall, that my body was telling me to prepare, to stop or slow down in a way. It's not so easy for me but I should have tapped into that.
I was also completely hungry for a full week before. Like, I couldn't get enough protein or carbs or cookies.
Signs for the normal woman, I guess, but for me, I don't know what the signs are anymore.
I took a week off of any physical activity. It actually felt good to give my bod a rest.
I look down at my skinned knees, now scabbing and I remember being a kid.
Skinned knees were part of the job, except there is no mom here to blow on the cut and give you a curious george band aid, just a reticent lifeguard on his cell phone handing you a generic bandaid and a wet nap.
Thank you for saving my life. I thought you guys were supposed to be cute and nice like the folks on Baywatch.
Smoke and mirrors.
Sand and sun.
I feel a bit like a kid. I have these two big scabs across my knees, like war wounds of the play ground.
I didn't cry or pout but I actually embraced my wounds.
It was about time, really.
All that stuff I do by the beach, it's rather funny.
I can't tell you how many people, mostly tourists, stop me to ask what I'm doing, give me a thumbs up or tell me they wish they could do what I'm doing.
I usually tell them they can do exactly what I'm doing as long as they don't mind looking a little funny.
It's not normal.
But I went out today, with the Jasmine blowing through my hair, and the sand and the salt. And I didn't fall and the day was long and I was inspired, not to write but to be.
The sun set like it always does every day. It never bores me.
My scabs itch like they always did when I was ten.
And I'm royally inspired.