Push the walls. Away.

From the floor of a small ballet studio overlooking Sansom Street, two stories up, she floats effortlessly across mirror-side and says this so quietly and with such conviction, I am struck by both its punch and its pick-up, "Push your walls away."

And so I do:

In a barre pilates class, extended through my potential "X" toward the four corners of that space;

Rising from a deep chair pose, reaching beyond the beams in the old room in the back, with dim light, blocked by a narrow alley and overlapping borders;

From stride one of 15 miles so early on a Saturday that I am alone with the struggle - of grass against frost, geese against wind, emptiness against suffocation and me against the unknown miles; and

From my last mile, finally in time with my breath:

Inhale, you can do this.

Exhale, push the walls away.

Inhale, lengthen my stride with loose hips.

Exhale, move my weight into the momentum.

Inhale, believe in the finish line.

Exhale, channel crossing it.

It is within these rhythmic breaths that I am warm on the coldest winter runs, that I see purpose in movement and find insight to the space between me and my practice. As a Runner, I've learned that I identify the unknown as the walls that hold me down into the known, crushing growth and slowing potential.  My constant breath pushes this thought from my head and this concept from my radar.  It is a workout within any given workout to push my thoughts out beyond the limits I perceive and the pain that often comes with poor conditions.

I push away "cannot," and "what if," fears and the "no fucking way," doubts and "I'm too old," emptiness and anger, anxiety and pain, and disappointment and fatigue.  With every step forward into a run, I hold up the space between my walls, breathe deep, and tighten my grip on gratitude ever so slightly.  It is this way and only this way that I find personal bests still at the end of long races, waiting with open arms, and whispering all the while, "boom."

"Strong is the New Skinny."

With the wind gusting through you and stopping only at the black sky, the early morning 15 miler you chose for that first Friday in March can seem decidedly more harsh than anticipated and ragged like a hem line slowly falling.  Edges unraveled by the time, weather and life, you put your feet on the cold floor and believe you can.

It is the kind of run you respect;
The run that you flip all of the lights on for;
The moment for which you choose your mittens wisely;
The kind of run that warrants "Cupcake Thursday;"
The run that humbles your ligaments and invigorates your inner butterfly; and
That which separates Runners from everyone else.

The longest run of 2012 and since the Philadelphia Marathon, my first March run stormed in as a lion would, fearless and proud, ready to attack.  It left no room for doubt or anxiety.  It barely left time for breakfast.  This was as an electric of a run as I've had this year; ballsy and, at times, painful, this course was hilly, fast in between and a complete bitch throughout.  Quite simply, it made me find my strength. 

I had to dig down for the first time since Philly-Marathon-Mile-22.  And so I did. And over the hills I flew.  Stronger, harder, faster than before, the miles melted down and, despite the wind, the sweat poured off my face as if July was present, soaking my Under Armour.  I believed I was strong enough and therefore I was.  I believed that the miles would fade steadily and they did.  I saw my quads struggling uphill and felt my hamstrings lengthening in the decline.  My body was strong underneath me and I realized it.  Gone was my perception of a skinny, lanky girl and in its place was the epitome of compact strength.   All in one place, ready for action and unafraid of falling.

This is the run that reminded me to be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies. 
(~ Mother Teresa)