Lessons from Molly

A simple walk is exponentially more interesting with a puppy. They are incessantly curious about the world, about every crack and crevice in the cement that we mindlessly walk over as we stare at our phones. They allow random strangers to touch them and coo and love on them. And they openly receive it, without being pretentious or feeling underserving. They abandon themselves in curiosity and sensation.

They are what we wish we were, without the burdens of responsibility and reason.

Molly's first sunset and visit to the beach...                                                                           (Photo: J. Torralba)

“Love words. Agonize over sentences. And pay attention to the world.”

— Susan Sontag

Molly is teaching me how to see the world again for the first time. How to attune my senses to the different smells- the maple syrupy waffle cones wafting out of the ice cream parlor on Main Street, the stuffy old used bookstore with dusty shelves of coffee-stained pages and underlines sentences, the refreshing salty ocean breeze.

Poplar Beach, Half Moon Bay                                                                                                (Photo: J. Torralba)

She is teaching me to find wonder again in the mundane. This is what we strive for, not only as writers, but as human beings. 

Puppy Love.

“Dogs are the closest we come to knowing the divine love of God on this side of eternity.”

— Anne Lammott

Meet Molly. #labradoodlelove #proudauntie                                                                      (Photo: J. Torralba)

Team Betty 2016

The best belated birthday present came through an email today. I am so humbled and honored to have been chosen to represent Betty Designs for 2016 and join this amazing team of inspiring female athletes! Since 2012 when I first caught wind of Kristin Mayer's bold and edgy designs within women's triathlon apparel, I was hooked. It was a welcome change from the boring monochromatic triathlon tops and black shorts (snooze) that I had hesitantly accepted as the norm. The moment I first put on a pair of Betty Designs spandex shorts and zipped up the jersey covered with skulls and butterflies, I immediately felt more badass. More confident. More sexy. More divinely feminine. I've been a huge fan of Betty Designs both on and off the race course...and now I am officially a 'Betty!'

2016 is indeed shaping up to be an amazing year...

Writing at the Edge

Lifeboat Station at Point Reyes. Where most of the good stuff took place...

As an 'outgoing introvert' I have long struggled with the push-pull tension between desiring that human experience of connection versus wishing only to escape into the solitude/silence/space that allows for deep and meaningful artistic creation.

Sunrise from Chimney Rock trail

Being one with nature and welcoming the morning together...

On Sunday, I returned from a 3-day writing retreat located on the breath-taking coast of Point Reyes, aptly themed "Writing at the Edge." It's easy to romanticize this as the most ideal setting to write- a Henry David Thoreau's 'Walden' of sorts- filled with open sky and salty ocean breezes and pelicans diving for lunch and no phone reception. But for me, it was a wake-up call that sans life distractions, the blank page suddenly started to feel very uncomfortable. And when given the writing prompt- Write about the thoughts you have that you wish you didn't have- well, it's like the ground drops out from underneath you and you're left with your pen and your maniacal thoughts to dig you out. Scary, scary stuff. There were many times that I wish I could just check my Facebook or upload a picture on Instagram or text my friends instead of write. The edge suddenly was the last place that I wanted to be. It felt too risky, too dangerous, too vulnerable.

I recently read Courtney Martin's article "Life in Lady Writer Heaven" and found parts of it to be so fitting and true-

“It can be the most romantic time of year to be a writer. A few of the luckiest among us head off to cabins in the back country corners of America to finish our novels, memoirs, and manifestos at much-coveted writing residencies. Book dreams that we incubated all of that busy winter are finally going to hatch in the light of a hazy summer day with a picnic on our doorsteps and all the time in the world to be indulgent about our words.

While in residence here, each woman gets a “cottage-of-one’s-own” that would make even Virginia Woolf giddy. Each little wooden house has a wood burning stove, a big generous desk, a cozy loft bed, a French press for coffee—everything necessary for a dedicated writer. A resident’s days are her own, too. The only requirement is that she show up for a communal dinner at 5:30 pm, prepared by a round robin of local chefs who know just how to make a pie crust that does the just-plucked raspberries justice. Then you are ordered to leave without clearing your plate. They call it “radical hospitality.” At home, most residents call it “lazy teenagers.” Either way it feels outrageously luxurious.

The funny thing about this freedom—all day, every day, for weeks to oneself—is that it is both blissful and sobering, about writing and not about writing at all. You face the blank page and all the outlandish expectations you had for what you would get done in your time here, but you also face something even more vast and unconquerable: your internal life.

All those pesky heartbreaks and jealousies, regrets and disappointments, long drowned out by the fever pitch pace of modern life, are suddenly audible. The man you once loved, the friend you once trusted, the woman you once were—all return to take residence at your residency, where you were supposed to be all alone and writing the next Joy Luck Club or Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions.

Suddenly it’s like you’re entertaining a crowd of ghosts in your little cottage—each one with its own unresolved issue to discuss. You study the hand-drawn map of the grounds as if there will be a test later. You start playing Fiona Apple and dancing like a banshee. You almost wish you had a sink of dirty dishes or a strategic planning meeting.

It turns out that the outside world and all its demands aren’t just distractions from writing, as most writers tend to think, they are also buffers for our bruised psyches. They pull us away from our muse, to be sure, but they also protect us from our own demons. When there are phone companies to fight with, deadlines to meet, aging mothers to be nursed, eyebrows to wax—who has time to schedule in soul searching?

I dreamt of past lovers, old mentors, college friends. I realized that it wasn’t such a mysterious thing at all: I missed people that I loved that were now lost. I still had some grief hiding in the less-traveled corners of my heart. I felt sad. I didn’t solve it; I just noticed it. And then I realized I wanted to write again. Suddenly my fingers were dancing across the keyboard, tapping out a deeper story than I would have been able to write before.

When the residents gather for our daily meal together, we sometimes discuss writing, but more often we discuss people: our eye-rolling children, our partners back home, picking up the slack, our long lost relatives. We divulge things to each other we haven’t shared with our own family members. Because yes, we’ve been writing books all day, but we’ve also been reading the forgotten narratives of our own lives.”

During the first morning writing session, our instructor Sarah Rabkin said something that touched me in a profound way- "Maybe this isn't a writing retreat. Maybe it should be called an advance."

I know now that I am ready to advance, to move forward with faith. On Sunday afternoon, there were 15 writers who were sick of staring at the edge with our binoculars. Instead, we buckled on our own words and prose as lifejackets, helped each other into individual boats and pushed off the safe land together with a new energy, creativity and freedom.

Hungry for exploration and adventure.

With our pens and our hearts as our paddles.

Learning to Stay.

This morning's sunrise miles...

Whenever something bad happens, my first instinct is to run. It's in my blood. It's only recently that I've learned how to stay, sit, observe.

The phone rang this afternoon, smack-dab in the middle of my workday, and hesitantly, I answered. It was the shortest two-minute phone call that rocked my world. 

After I hung up, I tried to stay reasonable and unaffected, at least superficially, but it lasted for less than a minute. Then I could feel myself begin to slowly unravel- my mind shifted, my energy drained. I tried to keep a placid, balanced, neutral expression as I stared at my computer. 

I vaguely remember PK asking me a question about tube feeds, but my mind was spinning so far away from calculating fluid and protein goals.

That's when I completely lost it. I started sobbing- waves of grief and sadness swelling and crashing down on me as I gasped for air. I felt my mind explode in a thousand directions, felt every difficult unresolved feeling I'd buried in the past ten years suddenly burble up with such violent force. I ran down the hallway, nose dripping, crying uncontrollably, and found an empty hallway space where I just stood still until the shaking stopped.

Get it together, Julianne.

And another voice-

What's really going on now? Be here now. 

So I took a deep breath and stopped thinking and just watched my thoughts like clouds passing, not attaching to any one of them, but just being a curious observer. I watched as my mind flooded with thoughts of you're never going to be good enough for anyone. You deserve to be alone. You're going to die alone and have no children and even if you got a cat, the cat would probably hate you too and poop outside of the litter box just to piss you off, and this is just proof that no one is ever going to love you enough, and you'll never have your dream life or your dream house, and why is it so freaking hot outside if it's October, and I swear we are all going to die from global warming since everyone refuses to stop eating meat, and why are there so many dead bugs on this windowsill, doesn't housekeeping clean these rooms too, and what the heck is up with that Chrysler's parking job?

I just stood there for a few minutes, observing the ridiculous, fleeting nature of my thoughts. And it worked. Enough for me to wipe the smeared eyeliner from underneath my swollen eyes and blow my nose one last time before re-entering the office.

It's moments like these when I am grateful for my morning meditations. I'm far from being an expert. I just prop my pillow up in bed, cross my legs, debate whether I want silence or background music, and then focus on my breath. On some days the 20 minutes goes by in a blur, and there are others where 5 minutes feels like an eternity. But it's been in these sessions that I've learned  how to watch my thoughts- the easy ones, the kind ones, the negative ones, the painful and worrisome ones. I've learned that I am none of these and all of these at once, and that they will all pass, and soon a new set will enter of things that I should worry about or fear, and then, those too, will pass.

“Between the stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

— Victor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

Ninety minutes after my mini-breakdown, there I was again, this time seated in a circle with nine other medical staff and colleagues. Together we sat in silence, watching our thoughts collectively. This time, I wasn't sobbing. I was centered. 

In that moment, I practiced my own version of lovingkindness 'metta' meditation. I felt my throat tighten and my eyes well up with tears, even as they were closed, as I began with myself-

Julianne, may you feel safe. May you feel connected. May you feel loved.

I moved on to bless someone who I dearly love. Then someone neutral. Then, the most difficult person to me in that moment- the one who had called me.

I felt my energy shift and my heart soften with compassion and understanding, knowing they only had good intentions as they made that phone call. I repeated it silently and purposefully in my heart for them- May you feel safe. May you feel connected. May you feel loved.

My heart still felt heavier than usual, but it also felt more open and soft and tender.

And I knew it would be ok.

And it was.

So, you, my dear reader, may you also learn to watch your thoughts in life's difficult moments- and know that you are not your thoughts.

And above all-

May you feel safe.

May you feel connected.

May you feel loved.

See the Light.

“See the light in others, and treat them as if that is all you see.”

— Dr. Wayne Dyer

Sunset runs... #illuminatelove #grateful

Growing Back.

“Your body is not a temple. Temples can be destroyed and desecrated. Your body is a forest- thick canopies of maple trees and sweet scented wildflowers sprouting in the underwood. You will grow back, over and over, no matter how badly you are devastated.”

— Beau Taplin

Back running again after a long and painful hiatus. Analogous to so much that's been happening in my life lately... #resilience #staythecourse #keepthefaith

Vegan Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Muffins.

Autumn baking is officially on, baby. The days are getting chilly and windy but still sunny enough to score a tan during mid-day swims, and the honeycrisp apples, pumpkin, nutmeg, and cinnamon are begging to be put to use. 

The Vitamix is officially all packed up and ready to be sent back to Headquarters, so my Kitchen Aid mixer stood there on my countertop all alone, looking longingly at me with her sad eyes. I caved.

I usually follow recipes exactly, just since I feel like I barely paid attention in food science class, and the whole ingredient-substitution thing can be overly complicated. But today, perhaps it was the weather, or a false sense of confidence catalyzed by the fact that I had accomplished 75% of the things on my to-do list- well, I was feeling ballsy. Which meant that I substituted quite anything and everything that I could, in order to make these pumpkin chocolate chip muffins more healthy, in true 'dietitian' nature.

Flax eggs? Bring it on. (For the record, it's just 1 Tbsp flax meal mixed with 3 Tbsp water. It makes an egg-like consistency, for vegan recipes). I swapped coconut sugar for brown sugar, and used coconut oil instead of canola oil. 

I'm learning that cooking, baking, whatever; it's all a craft of its own sort. It's a moving meditation, an art, a tender practice of intending, intuiting, stirring and creating something beautiful that wasn't there before. Try it for yourselves.

VEGAN PUMPKIN CHOCOLATE CHIP MUFFINS

INGREDIENTS:

• 1 flax egg
• 1/2 cup organic pumpkin puree
• 1 cup almond milk + 1 Tbsp lemon juice
• 1/2 cup coconut sugar
• 2 Tbsp melted coconut oil
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 tsp cinnamon
• 3/4 cup whole wheat flour
• 3/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
• 1/3 cup vegan chocolate chips

DIRECTIONS:

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees and line muffin tins with paper liners.
2. Prepare flax egg by mixing flax meal and water in a cup- let rest for 5 minutes until it thickens
3. Add wet ingredients together and stir. Then, add salt, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon and whisk.
4. Carefully place flours into a sifter and add to wet ingredients and stir.
5. Add chocolate chips and stir.
6. Spoon into paper-lined muffin tins and bake for 22-25 minutes or until fluffy and golden brown.
7. Transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Store in an air-tight container or bag.

And there you have it. A delicious and healthy muffin to start off the fall season. Happy baking. 

You Are Life.

Topped off today literally chasing the sunset with good company, headlamps on the visors, deeply inhaling the crisp evening autumn air. The seasons are definitely changing. The trails are always the first to unwrap autumn, and tonight I was able to really pay attention while breathing and running, noticing the parallels to how we try to out-run the looming darkness of death and race towards the ever-quickly-setting sun. Chasing, chasing, chasing.

And so we stopped to enjoy the painted sky after the sun had set, and all at once, it made sense...

“You are not separate from the whole. You are one with the sun, the earth, the air. You don’t have a life, you are life.”

— Eckhart Tolle

Here's to early autumn sunsets, trail runs, and the big lessons that emerge from simple adventures. You are life. Remember that. 

Why Hello, Autumn...

I'm craving yin the way a newborn craves milk.

Despite the toasty weather and the triple digits that the Tri-Valley has been experiencing lately, fall is officially here as of today, and with it, so many seasonal changes are afoot. The evenings creep earlier now, and kabocha stew will soon be simmering on the stove. The Pumpkin Fairy has officially waved her wand over the aisles of Trader Joe's, and soon the watermelon bins will be replaced by pumpkins and squash. The headlamp is charged for the early morning/evening runs, and I've unpacked the long-fingered gloves and arm warmers in preparation for the chillier bike rides.

I'm digging it.

Embracing the new fall season with a new fall hair color.... #ombrelove

I'm excited to trade the sleeveless tanks for scarves and knee-high boots that have been hiding in the back of my closet, and light the apple cinnamon spiced candles and read good books underneath a warm blanket to the fireside's glow. I've noticed the subtle shift of my mood and how it follows the seasons- I find it's true how nature plays a role in our physical and emotional states.

According to traditional Chinese medicine, there is a connection between autumn, the Metal element, and the large intestines and lungs, and there is natural tendency to turn even more inward and reflective as we embrace root vegetables, hot soup, flickering candles, and everything else that embodies this season of yin.

So if you are anything like me, and find you have a tendency to feel even more quiet and thoughtful and nostalgic and maybe a little reminiscent and even just a tad bit melancholy, just recognize that it's just Autumn, saying hello, and taking off her shoes and putting down her jacket in your house since she'll be staying awhile.

So invite her in, throw a kettle on the stove, and light the fireplace. And don't forget the pumpkin bread. Welcome, Fall.

Rising Strong.

“There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by. A life of good days lived in the senses is not enough. The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet. Who would call a day spent reading a good day? But a life spent reading- that is a good life.”

— Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Recently, I've been consumed with two creative, inspiring, raw, authentic, fiery, unapologetically-badass women whose work I have admired through the years. Both have new books out. 

Dr. Brene Brown's work on vulnerability and shame from a research-oriented perspective inspired me in my own writing and sharing of my work. Turns out, when you dare greatly in the 'arena,' you are going to get knocked down. 

Miraculously, PK and I were able to score tickets to her sold-out show in SF, and there was a unique energy in the room. We were not her fans, we were part of her tribe- all of us were somehow in our own arenas of life, wanting so badly to choose courage over fear, being tempted to feel safe rather than brave, but also feeling sick and tired of hiding out, pretending, and armoring up against vulnerability.

“Our job is not to deny the story, but to defy the ending- to rise strong, recognize our story, and rumble with the truth until we get to a place where we think, ‘Yes. This is what happened. This is my truth. And I will choose how this story ends.”

— Dr. Brene Brown, Rising Strong

In her newest book, Rising Strong, Dr. Brene Brown provides the roadmap to enable individuals to navigate through the messy middle parts of life (this is where the magic happens), and ultimately emerge from the mud and mire more whole, and living a more wholehearted life. She reliably, simply, shatteringly continues to rock my world, in the most mindful, elegant, research-based of ways.

On the same note, Elizabeth Gilbert's newest book Big Magic comes out tomorrow. I've been riding this train of what it means to live a creative life (it is a choice, after all), how to show-up daily for the 'work' even when feeling uninspired, and trusting that this path of uncertainty as an artist is worthwhile and meaningful. These authors are like warm blankets to comfort us artists, who are at times, shivering in our own fear and isolation. The power of good, honest, raw writing, of course, is that even when it expresses sentiments of the work being difficult and hard and muddy, that kind of authenticity makes us all feel less alone in our creative work. Somehow, we feel more normal.

Read Dr. Brene Brown's book Rising Strong, and listen to this fabulous interview with Elizabeth Gilbert and Jonathan Fields about her new book, Big Magic. 

http://www.goodlifeproject.com/elizabeth-gilbert/

Take inspiration by the hand and follow your curiosity. Then get up off your butt. And make something real.