The Hill

I've had the same songs on my ipod since Mother's day.
2 playlists:
"Run Sarah Run"
and "Cool Down"

The running songs are chosen for the beat.
If the beat matches my running stride - it's good.
If it's too slow or too fast, it messes me up.
It feels like I'm running against the current
Surprisingly, Eminem raps at the same pace by which I run.
We may disagree on a lot of other things, but for about 40 minutes, I'm right there with him.
Also on this list are Evanescence, Black Eyed Peas, Cardigans, and Mickey Avalon.
I've been running with these guys for years.

My cool down playlist is set for the rush of emotion that comes when I walk back to the house.
Running is a release for me.
It loosens the crust which forms when I ignore myself.
I have to ignore myself in order to get things done.
"Destruction of self-centerdness"  - a spiritual ideal.
But just like all things - there is a balance - otherwise I'm just absent.
So when I check in with myself, I often find sorrow for the times  I fall short.
I find sorrow for all the hours spent in solitary acts of duty.
And I listen to this song by Marketa Irglova "The Hill."
Every time I hear it, I want to write about it, but I never have my computer handy.
She is singing to her husband, a song he will never hear:

Walking up the hill tonight
when you have closed your eyes.
I wish I didn't have to make
all those mistakes and be wise.
Please try to be patient
and know that I'm still learning.
I'm sorry that you have to see
the strength inside me burning.

But where are you my angel now?
Don't you see me crying?
And I know that you can't do it all
but you can't say I'm not trying.
I'm on my knees in front of him
but he doesn't seem to see me.
With all his troubles on his mind
he's looking right through me.
And I'm letting myself down
satisfying you
And I wish that you could see
that I have my troubles too.

Looking at you sleeping
I'm with the man I know.

I feel stupid to admit these feelings.
It seems like I'm complaining.  I'm not.
If anything, I suppose I'm begging.
How silly to beg when he's asleep, but it's the only time I'd do it.
I don't even think I'm begging him.  I think I'm begging Grace for a reprieve.
Ironic though, I'll bet he could sing the same song to me.
I know his loneliness matches mine.
I know he tries just as hard.
I know he misses me sometimes too.

This is why we keep saying,

"I'm sorry."
"I hear you."
"I'll try."

For the first few years of my recovery I struggled with a deep feeling of,
"I am not enough."
I thought my husband made me feel this way.
I thought my kids, and my Dad, and my clothes made me feel this way.
Now I know that I've used this guilt to drive me, and I don't need it anymore.
Sometimes I think I do, but then I remember.
I can stop trying to get enough, be enough.
I don't need the measurements.
Not for me.  Not for him.