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| Olympic Spirit Rose cultivated for London Olympics |
I had been training for 6
months guided by a professional trainer who monitored the programme and diet so
that the body and mind would hold up through the task ahead. Running a marathon
was a personal goal, to see how far I could push the machine, to experience the
deep sense of accomplishment even if it meant that I would hurt myself; to
prove that I could do something unusual, to beat myself. It was a trip of self-discovery.
On race day, I was
ready. I started out fresh and fast.
After a few miles, I knew I had to slow down, find my own rhythm and not
heed those around me. I settled in for the long haul.
Those middle miles were
wonderful. I felt I could run forever. Everything was working.
No pain, rhythmic breathing, warmer weather, no more wind, and no more
pack around me. I could focus on myself, my thoughts, let the natural hormones
work their magic and move into the zone. Every other mile, I made sure to
hydrate. Being Dallas, the checkpoints were dynamic with different
decorative themes, motivating music, cheering crowds, and from time to time, I
would see my one supporter on her bike encouraging me on at each check point
and once done, pedaling frantically to ensure that she would be at the next
checkpoint and visible when I arrived.
Come Mile 18, I started to
come undone. I was feeling tired. In my training, I had done 18
miles at least 4 times, faced steep inclines that dared me to give up. I lost confidence. Despite this, I pushed on, running uninspiredly through
a rather dull and grey part of the city. The checkpoints were now perfunctory, just water and a few supporters. I lost sight of my biking
friend. I felt alone. I faltered. I decided I might walk the
rest of the way; no, that was not an option. I might stop and give up, no
that was not an option either. Mile 19, still managing to put one foot in
front of the other, but with no great ease or will. I slowed down almost
to a halt. The feet continued to go forward but I was mentally stuck in
one place. You have a choice, I
said to myself. This is hell.
Why continue? You have to, answered the voice. You have no choice.
From the corner of my eye I
saw my friend on her bike on the sidewalk. She's an enthusiastic
big-hearted, expansive person. She was there, waving her arms, smiling
her big smile “You can do it, Kathy, you can do it, you are so close, go, girl
go!” At the same time, I felt a presence, right on my heels. It
was a small person, a fellow runner. She was quietly talking to me.
“You are running a great race,” she was saying. “You are keeping a
great pace. Keep going, you can make it… You are having an amazing race…”
The checkpoint at Mile 20 was
the best of what the Texans can do. In Texas, bigger is better.
Gone were the simple water station and the bananas on sticks. It is
1989. The Berlin Wall came down in the March of that year and so
before me, the organizers had built a mock up of the Wall with actors hammering
away and taking down stones. Mile 20 is also where many runners hit the
figurative wall in their race, where they feel they cannot continue and they
have to dig very deep to find the will and the physical resources to move through
the darkness, get to the other end and sail to the finish. So it was so
appropriate in its symbolism. My mental state was jerked into the moment.
Was that a real German soldier coming towards me? I remember
grabbing a cup of Gatorade, drinking thirstily and throwing the paper cup defiantly
to the ground. I remember looking behind me to see whether that small
runner was still there. I checked for my biking friend. I looked
ahead. I felt better. I knew I still had a way to go, but suddenly
I felt hope, that I could make it. My feet were still hurting and I was
beginning to ache all over, but mentally I had a clearer head. And I ran
on, and on, and on, arms pumping, if all else fails, keeps the arms pumping,
and keep breathing.
And then in the distance I
could hear the music coming from somewhere ahead of me. Was it the finish
line? I knew that the children would be somewhere in the crowd. I
felt they had thrown a long rope to lasso me and now they were drawing me in,
little by little. I began to believe that what seemed hopeless just a
short time ago was now possible. It was a feeling of staggering elation.
My feet no longer touched the ground and, miraculously, I no longer felt
pain. The sun was warm on my face, my arms were still pumping, my lungs
full, my body propelling me forward. I picked up speed. Mile 22 -
check; Mile 23 - check, water; Mile 24 - check. Now the music was
really loud, the crowd deep and noisy. To finish is to win, the motto my
husband had printed on his t-shirt the first time he ran a marathon. It
is exactly that. It is a feat and to finish is to win, to win against all
odds within oneself.
And then, vaguely, I could
see the finish, a large red banner across the main road. The music became
louder and louder, the blow horns blaring announcing names as racers crossed
the line, the flash of the camera snapping the photo finish and recording tag
number, time and joy. 100 metres out and I caught sight of the kids with
their friends holding a big 'you did it' banner giving me the final lift to
bring me in on the last yards. And then a volunteer guided me into a
narrower lane. I kept my pace, maybe even sped up a little, so proud to
show that I did not waiver even at the end, maybe wanting to show that I had run
that pace the whole time, and I sprinted in to the finish. The clock
showed 3 hours 33 minutes 20 secs. This was my victory. I looked
immediately behind me to see where my small runner friend was. I needed
to acknowledge her and thank her. I didn't see anyone who resembled her.
My biking supporter was right there, throwing her arms around me shouting
her congratulations in my year. The children came running up, the
younger one jumping into my arms. It was a celebration of a very special
kind. It is a memory I conjure up frequently.
I reflect on that day every
time I doubt my ability to accomplish something. Without this experience,
I wonder whether I would ever know the extent of the stuff within me. I
learned that a good portion of this “stuff” is courage, physical yes, but
more importantly the will to continue when the alternative is totally
unacceptable.
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| watercolour study |
But I recognize that my
marathon experience allows me in only a very small way to understand the
fortitude the mother of a child who has just learned that her newborn is
diagnosed with an illness for which there is no cure. I needed to try to
put myself in the shoes of such a mother when I was asked to design an
embroidery work in memory of a young man who had passed away the year before.
He was 16 years old and had suffered from Cerebral Palsy since birth.
R. must have faced many moments when the path seemed
impossibly difficult. There had been no preparation, no training to help
her face the reality that her newborn would not be like other healthy babies
and this made all the more difficult by the sheer unexpectedness and gravity of
the news. She needed to immediately gather energy and resources to draw
this beautiful child to her knowing that she will have to climb many mountains
in the coming months in order to respond to M's needs, her family's needs and
most importantly her own none of which she could define in the moment.
I have never met R. I
know her only through the remarkable story that her good friend Alli told me.
I however have known Alli since she was 13. She is now in her
40s and has three children of her own, one of whom is autistic. So it is
not surprising to know that Alli and R. have a deep connection, the kind of
understanding on how life can deliver some complex cards, how digging down and
finding the inner strength to respond to the best of one's ability, to overcome
that sense of unfairness, to meet the challenge and to do so unfailingly
despite the rough passages and insurmountable challenges and mostly constantly
facing the unknown in a way that the majority of us cannot even fathom.
Alli also has a big heart and a terrific sense of humour, which has saved
her in many an instance and probably has saved R too during their many sharing
moments. It was Alli that asked me to
design a memorial piece for M. drawing in his valiant nature, his loving
spirit.
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| Hand Embroidery - Silk on linen |
There is a multitude of
Mile 20s for these mothers in their very specific marathon of life.
Thus the importance of a close support system who understands, a person
who cheers them on, or whispers encouragement while they run, tired and despairing, to bring them
back to their goal, not to finish the race, but to get to the end of the day
without impatience, to see the child sleep soundly after a particularly trying
period.
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| L'Art de L'Aiguille 2013 |
And for R, one day, her marathon with M ends, suddenly
and unexpectedly. She would have liked the race to continue on; she
certainly was ready to stay the course. She had already shown the right
stuff, the fortitude and the courage. And now she faces another challenge,
that of her life without M. For this, she will once again dig deep into
her being for the strength to adjust to the absence of her son.
She will find a way to shuffle the pieces of her life puzzle and her
story with M. will find its place to be fixed in her mind for ever with its
heart ache and joys, for indeed there were both. She knows she will stay
this course too, because she has shown to herself and to others that she has
those inner resources to come through.
M's marathon was one of the
spirit. He ran it every day for all of his bravely-lived 16 years until
his heart gave out. He died on April 24, 2012.
R. ran all the way along
side him and she will continue on. Her race is longer but the future will
be rich in memories, particularly when the Olympic Spirit rose blooms in her garden and the
blue dragonflies are all about.
