Dear Owner of the 1990's Green Honda Parked on 48th & Spruce,

...So that was me, dressed like a Navy Seal, standing under a street light on the corner of 48th and Spruce, drawing a heart in the fresh snow that painted your hood.  I realize it was a big heart and sort of crooked and  that it was a bit presumptuous of me to draw something so personal on a stranger's car.  But, in my defense, it was 6:30AM on a Friday morning and it had been snowing for about an hour.  I know this because my 12 mile run began just as the flurries decided to fall.  The city was silent underneath the weight of this beautiful half inch of white peacefulness and I felt compelled to show you that there is still beauty in this world by drawing elementary shapes on your vehicle.  And so, the heart incident happened.

By way of background, this run began on the coldest day of the year with snow flying in sideways and directly into my eyes.  At the Mile 1 Beep, I thought of hot coffee, a hot shower, a hair dryer and warm clothes, and, most of all, turning around.  At the Miles 3 and 4 Beeps, I was decidedly warmer and my face was basically numb from the wind and, you guessed it, snow.  It wasn't until mile 5 that I found myself admiring all of the untouched snow amid the UPenn doctors and nurses, wearing their heavy coats and clogs (or are they crocks now?), making their way down the slippery sidewalks to their hospitals sitting at the base of the medical hill.  I thought about drawing something somewhere the entire way up through campus and then, on my way back down, at about mile 7 of a 12 mile run, I saw your car sitting there.

Admittedly, my mitten was tracing the crooked heart before I could really think the thing through.  Clearly, it wasn't centered or even on both sides.  I am no artist.  Just a runner that gets so high on running sometimes, it's hard to hold it all in.  And, even at 32, there is something about running in the snow that brings the kid back to the surface for moments like this one, when you're just trying to get a very basic message of joy and hope across to a complete stranger and anyone who happened to pass it along their snowy walk to work.

My hope was simple:  I wanted you to know that someone was up before you, playing her heart out in the snow, and loving beyond familiarity.

The snow stopped around mile 8 and the sun rose up so slowly and gracefully, I had the chance to notice each ray as it greeted the day.  The sky was, at once, pink and purple and warm.  This was the kind of morning when I am grateful to be alive and humbled to be a participant.   And so, Honda Owner, I truly hope that you smiled when you saw your car that morning.

Love, Me

Surrounded.

"Surround yourself with the dreamers and doers, the believers and thinkers, but most of all, surround yourself with those who see greatness within you, even when you don't see it yourself."

I ran 10 miles so early in the morning, my face needed a ninja mask and my mind was cleared before my body warmed up. It was the kind of cold that leaves you to think of anything but your numb hands.  The kind of frost that makes everything crunchy right down to individual blades of grass.  Gone are the geese and rabbits; the squirrels are still nestled up in their tree houses; and the path is clear as all of the leaves have long fallen away.  There is no sound but your inhale and exhale.  There is no distraction.

After mile 1 woke me up, I spent the remaining 9 running around the Art Museum and UPenn, behind a giant power plant and through beautiful new developments down by the water.  It was, as it usually is, a beautiful sunrise hitting the sides of Philly's skyline as I came back across the 30th Street Bridge, when I thought of my best friend hunkering down and getting ready to climb Kilimonjaro.  At that moment, this event was approximately 22 hours off.  As I ran the last of the cold miles back to a hot shower, I thought of what it took to get her to Africa this Christmas.  With each step, I found myself in awe of the sheer bravery with which she lives life.  There is no second guessing, no questioning, no what-ifs, no wavering and certainly no quitting.  I am lucky to be her student.  I am lucky to love her.

That day, I found myself so grateful for those 90 very cold minutes and 10 very cold miles.  It gave me peace to reflect on the people that I've surrounded myself with and their stories.  There are those that have lost everything and build themselves back up day by day; they are heroes for overcoming epic pain; they are fierce competitors and wily opponents; they support me blindly; they care when I fall and check in on me when I'm sick; they take care of my body, mind and spirit when I forget to; they are the ones that dream with me when I say "I think I want to run an Ultra;" they buy me sunscreen every summer and congratulate me every February 14th on another year lived well; they lead by example and not with words; they try cases with juries; they save lives; they run marathons after they've had strokes; they walk next to me when I can't remember how; they remind me that when we were kids, I was super uncoordinated; they show me sand and send me shells; they have babies; they show up, listen and love me no matter what; they teach me how to cook; they hurt when I hurt and laugh when I laugh; they share honestly and openly; they hold so many of my firsts; they remember; they recover and coach because they can't play; they write beautifully and often; and they inspire me to do more today, and be more tomorrow, than I thought I ever could.

And now that my brave little best friend has been on this mountain for approximately 36 hours and all of the toasts to her safety have been had, I want the world to know that "it is never too late to live the life you'd always imagined."  Go ahead.  Get on with it.

Don't forget to breathe.

I woke up Thursday morning and inhaled so deeply it was as if time stopped but for my lungs expanding.  It was both brilliant and meditative in its simplicity.  In that moment I felt healthy, apt and ready to embrace what followed.  It is humbling and important, I think, to realize how lucky one is simply to be awake and alive.  And so, on one of the first January mornings of 2013, an hour before my 6:30AM yoga class, I thanked god  for giving me this day and exhaled, as deeply as I inhaled, my way out from under the covers and into a cold, dark morning with endless possibilities.

As a runner that's new to her thirties and new to the slower recoveries this decade has been rounding up, I've found yoga both restorative and necessary.  It has become the trusted, best friend that's always ready to pick me up after running has undoubtedly chewed me up and spit me out over hills and bridges, steps and frozen ground, along foggy water and through old neighborhoods.

I look forward to the moment the door closes and locks out the noise and lights of the world.  When my left ankle aches, I know I will take extra ankle turns and spend some time there.  When my hips are tight, I know  I will ease my way into the practice and take care with my joints.  And when my lower back is screaming from the prior day's 10 mile hill workout, I know I will twist ever so slightly further into the dark, hot room and focus my mind on feeling strong.  I will feel the subtle beat of the iPod and I will become steady and sure of myself.  I will heal.  I will wake.  I will keep moving.

Over the last year, I've found that yoga is not a compliment to my running.  Rather, it resides at the core of my stride.  It strengthens and loosens what needs work and fixes what has been broken.  When something gets intense, there is your breath.  When there is a challenge of balance or focus, there is your breath.  When you are folding deeper into your practice, there is your breath.  And much like this central point of my yoga practice, my running has, too, become peripheral to breathing.

When my legs are heavy, I suck in as much cold air as I can and squeeze it out of my lungs in a hush.  I am propelled forward.  When my arms are sore or my head foggy, I lean into myself, tuck my tailbone and feel my core engage all of me.  And I am moving, once again, in one strong flow.  When my lower back tweaks at the end of a hill, I reach forward, unplug my shoulder blades and plug them back onto my back once again.  Feeling new and powerful, I crush the descent.

Through it all, I do not forget to breathe. I take this with me, in my pocket, and make an effort to remind myself, whether I'm standing in line or running to catch a bus or running errands at lunchtime, that no matter what, no matter where, "Your whole life is here; there is no eleventh hour reprieve; so don't forget to breathe (Alexi Murdoch, Breathe)."

There's something about a bridge

I marked January 1, 2013 with what is familiar.  It is a bridge run I've done for three years whether I'm seeking hills in a flat city, an escape a little bit above water-level, a view of Philly or distance from it.  This run is exactly a 7 mile loop from my front door and is as consistent as they come.  The inclines are slight and gradual.  The declines exhilarating and reliable.  The route lined by Front and Race Streets is packed with women doing the walk of shame, dogs out for jogs, war memorials, beautiful tall ships, trash, last night's empty bottles, a striking view of Camden, and enough alone time to focus on anything or nothing.  It is one of those runs I keep safe for when I need it.  Like on the first of the year or the first day of school or the first day of a new job, new challenge, new opportunity or just when I've reached a fork in the road and I need to be reminded of the path I traveled to get there.

2013, for me, will be more about the great "journey" everyone talks about.  I've resolved only to be present in my life, my running, my relationships, my training and my practice.  I expect that I will covet deep breaths and grateful moments and that relationships and interactions will take on a new meaning.  I expect this to be difficult but worth it.  And I expect to have to remind myself of why this is important.

When I get worked up or stressed into a tizzy, I will remind myself that being present and embracing a moment is important not only because it will slow me down, but because there are truly no guarantees.  Not of tomorrow.  Not of next week.  And certainly not of forever.  I simply refuse to realize that too late.  I refuse to be the woman with such an epiphany at age 45.  I'd much rather be the one that figured it out at 32 and lived.

This is what I said to myself as I reached the top of the Ben Franklin on Tuesday, about 3 miles into my 7 mile loop.  It was cold, windy and my face hurt. I loved every second of it.