Done and Dusted - Run Melbourne 2014

For the 24 hours leading up to the Run Melbourne I was antsy - almost like that feeling you get the day before scheduled surgery.

Whose ridiculous idea was this anyway?

I had to keep reminding myself that this was something I wanted to do! I don't know what it is about event running that sends me into feelings of dread. I mean, I run three times a week on average. I have run a distance of ten kilometres many times. Heck, I've even run more than ten kilometres several times!

There's just something about the official-ness of an event that is somewhat daunting and does my head in.

Despite how nervous I felt I still rocked up at the starting line on Sunday. When I arrived the Half-Marathon was well underway. I stayed at the starting line and watched those amazing runners stream past, keeping my eyes peeled for my friend and personal trainer, Kara. Honestly, I didn't think I'd spot her amongst the thousands of faces, but I managed to spot her, screamed her name and jumped up and down like a loon in the hopes that she'd see me so I could give her some encouragement and support. She did and she smiled through the grimaces of pain. I found out afterwards that she was on her second lap and was feeling all the feels.

Soon it was time to line up with all the other 10k participants. I was amongst the first pack to head out as I needed to get started to get to another appointment on time! The starting bell went off at 9:15am and we got underway.

I normally hate the first three kilometres of a run and this time was no exception. It's my warm up time and it's like my body says, "Woman, are you serious? Are we doing this again?"

"Why yes," I answer myself. "Yes we are."

"Hmph!" says my body, grudgingly. "Ok then."

Between four and eight kilometres I settled in. I was running a good pace. I felt good. My legs were sore but coping well and I'd found a rhythm I was comfortable with. Even the hills were ok. I utilised the down hill runs to make up some time but even then I discovered that there's an element of control that has to be employed so that I didn't lose control and lose my balance. It was during this time that I happened to hear a cheery and excited, "Leisa!" from the sidelines and when I looked I saw Laura, my massage therapist, cheering and waving.

People, do you know what it does to a runner to see a familiar face in the crowd? It is so encouraging and for me it seems to lessen the aches. Laura's cheering spurred me on for the next couple of k's. As I ran other runners would pass me and look back and say, "You're doing great! Keep going!"

I love the cameraderie amongst runners. As my sister would say, "They're my people!"

At eight kilometres I hit a wall where I lost some sense of reality.

"What? Why? Whose crazy, sadistic idea was it to do this anyway? I hurt! This hurts! I want to go home. Am I really doing this?"

Just after the 8km mark we had to run through a covered footbridge next to the Rod Laver Arena. As I made to exit the bridge I felt very dizzy and unsure of my feet. I slowed down thinking that I was experiencing something really serious. It wasn't until I stopped that I realised the bridge was moving! It was some kind of suspension bridge that was moving with the sheer weight of the runners!

At the nine kilometre mark an official encouraged us, "One more kilometre to go guys! You can do this!" 

As soon as I came down the straight into Birrarung Marr I spotted the blue of the finish line. A wave of adrenaline hit. I actually sped up! My strides lengthened and I felt this surge of energy as I actually sprinted to the finish line. My eyes scanned the crowd for my family but alas, they didn't make it on time. As I crossed the finish line this figure hurtled at me from my left. It was Kara, congratulating me. It was over. I'd done it.

After I'd reunited with my family and we were making our way back to the station, a lady stopped me and asked if I was the person she'd seen running and asked what distance I'd completed. I said I was and I'd completed the 10km. She was so encouraged to see me running and wanted to tell me so. I thanked her and gave her a big hug. I don't know why. It just seemed like the right thing to do. We runners kind of share something special I guess, so hugging a complete stranger is nothing unusual.

My official time was 1:25:56. Not by PB but I'm happy. I think slowing down for water (necessary) and stopping on that bridge affected my time.

Why do I do it?

Because once upon a time, running saved my life and it continues to do so, even when it hurts and even when I don't want to. The road is always there for me and there's always more road to explore. Running slows things down and makes me take one day at a time.

I'm glad I found it. It helped me find me again.

Why I write

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I was invited to participate in the Why I Write blog hop by the lovely Jackie from Hippie Mumma. Jackie and I "met" through an online diary site called Open Diary. One of our fellow diarists organised a Secret Santa one year and I was lucky enough to be Jackie's. Through the miracle of the interwebz I have watched Jackie get married and become mama to the gorgeous Olivia. One day I hope we can meet up in person!

I love to write. I've always loved writing - right from the time I picked up a pencil and paper and knew what to do with them. I took to reading and writing like a duck to water. My teacher would ask the class to write a short story and I would write pages and pages in half an hour.

Maths on the other hand.....

Why do I write?

I write to be heard. I write to get my story out there. I write so that people out there can get a glimpse into what it's like living with a physical difference....not that it's really any different mind you, but I want my writing to get that message out there. I think that was one of the things that prompted me into writing Life At My Level in the first place. I got tired of current affairs programs airing sickly sweet "inspirational" stories about people with dwarfism so I thought I'd get my voice out there and show just daily life.

I also write for my own therapy. As my picture up there says, "Sometimes I don't know what I think until I read what I say". Writing has been wonderful therapy for me - a place where I can come and get stuff out there on the page so I can see what's really going on and what I actually think about stuff.

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How does my writing differ from others in its genre?

Hmm...I don't think it does really. I've had people let me know that I take them on a journey when they read my writing; that I set up the story well. It's nice to know that. Other than that, I don't think I write differently at all. We all have our own stories and this is mine, unique to me...so I guess that's how my writing is different. It's my story, no one elses so in that way it's different to writing by others.

What am I working on?

At the moment I'm working on a piece for a project called Letters to Myself, as part of the Short Arts Collective with the Short Statured People of Australia. Each participant in the project is writing a piece either to their past or future selves, exploring what we want to tell the younger self or talking to our future selves about our hopes and dreams. I am writing to my younger self during a time that impacted where the rest of my life was going to head. It's been an intense project; one that I've had to step away from sometimes and reflect on some things. It's been therapeutic at times.

I'm also working on blog posts. Always.

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Why do I write what I do?

Because I have to. There's just something in me that can't stay silent. This is my way of dealing with my big emotions. It helps me make sense of my world and the journey I've taken right up to this point. It's almost like if I don't write then all these feelings are just going to well up in me until I explode - mainly the good feelings really. I get so overwhelmed with the goodness of life that sometimes I can't contain it - so I write.

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How does my writing process work?

I wish I could say that I dedicate a day where I batch write and schedule...but I don't. My writing is very much ad hoc as the feeling grabs me. Often I'll be thinking about a particular issue for days until I actually write something; other times I'll just go with it. It all depends. Inspiration for posts usually hits when I'm in the middle of a run and I have it all worked out, every word, along with accompanying photographs and sometimes a video with music and voiceovers. I come up with the most magnificent posts in my head when I'm running...but it all goes south when I sit at the keyboard so you just get what little of it remains.

Passing the baton.

It's said that a blog hop is like a chain letter without all the threats of bad luck. Instead it's just a way of passing on the love to other writers we each find inspiring or interesting. I'd love to introduce you to a blogger I really enjoy.

Courtney Simross is the writer of Life is Short and So Am I where she shares her experiences of being a Nanny, college student and best friend at a 4'2" perspective. She has achondroplasia, the most common form of dwarfism and loves sharing the humor she finds in her differences. Please pop over and give Courtney some love!

Flailing into Friday

Its been a cracker of a week...and not in a good way. The stress and tension has been slowly building to a crescendo. I will smack the next person who mutters the word hormones. Just because something is fuelled by hormones doesn't make it any less real or valid. I had a pastor who once said to me, "I can guarantee that there'll always be one week of the month where you'll need to come and talk to me." I felt so...dismissed. I still don't think I've quite forgiven him for that. And yes, it was him in case you were wondering...

I don't know what it was about today but it was all kinds of strange down at the shops today. People were staring more than usual, cutting me off, pushing in. Someone pushed their shopping trolley into my back. I politely asked this lady if she could please reach a Veggie Loaf for me from the upright freezer and she looked at me as though I was some kind of a three headed alien freak before retrieving the loaf for me and handed it to me stonily. I thanked her sweetly and went on my way. I saw her again at the registers and she still looked at me as though I was the most terrible kind of putrid...but whatever. Maybe she was having an even more difficult day than me.

Poor lady.

I then exploded into car park rage trying to get out of the car park by yelling at people who were following me like lemmings when I drove down a newly blocked off, badly signed lane. I did not use my inside voice, nor did I use my nice words.

I am ashamed.

Reisa was not being a very nice "rady". (That saying is courtesy of my niece, who never fails to bring a smile to my face.)

I'm a tad better now. I've been given a 45 minute massage by my myotherapist and then a lovely adjustment from my chiropractor who then delivered the happy news that she's 15 weeks pregnant. Such happy news, along with the massage has made all things right with the world again...

Well...kind of.

I'm avoiding news bulletins and concentrating on fluffy news, such as medal tallies and World Record results from the Commonwealth Games. I actually got emotional watching the finish of the Women's Triathlon. Although I am not even close to the fitness level of those athletes, since becoming a runner I identified with the determination on their faces, the extra burst of speed when the finish line was in sight and the sheer elation and relief once the race was over. I've felt that too, to some degree and emotionally cheered them on as they finished.

There have been other blows during the week that I won't write about here. Suffice to say we are well versed in rolling with the waves that life sends our way and know that on the other side of the storm there are calm seas and clear skies.

Of this I am certain

On the train

Maybe you've got me at the wrong end of the month...but gee I can be a grumpy commuter. I'll own it. I'll wear it. I'll try and do something about it...and by that I mean I will try and remember to always have my tunes and my ear buds available at all times when using public transport. This morning I unfortunately left my music at home. It's pretty easy to do as I no longer have an iPhone so my phone and my music is no longer connected. I have to remember to bring the old iPhone which has iTunes still faithfully playing. I have to remember to bring my tunes so as to block out conversations I really don't want to hear.

I guess you could tell me, "Well, just don't listen!" I tried! Oh my LORD how I tried! I got out my book The Life of Pi (which I am loving by the way, so I am normally fully immersed!) but I could not block out this conversation today. I wasn't listening, but I could hear it.

Please remind me when I get past the age of sixty that it's a good thing to talk about interesting and positive things with a friend when on public transport. These conversations are normally ones that can be absorbed into the atmosphere and create a calming buzz for your fellow commuters.

This morning I was sitting right next to a couple of ladies in their sixties...maybe. Right from the time they got on (which I think was the next station after mine) until the time they got off (at the end of the line) they talked about things that I really didn't want to hear. As I said above, I really tried not to even hear them. There's a vast difference between listening and hearing I discovered today. I could hear these ladies but I wasn't listening in on their conversations....but the fact that I could hear them was bad enough.

They talked about a gamut of things but the bit I found most disturbing was the open conversation about the recent tragedy of MH17.

Yes, we all know people died and died tragically. It hurts. It really does. There are realities about the deaths of the people on board that we all know...deep down we all know that the victims didn't just come to rest on the earth, undisturbed and perfect....but we don't openly talk about it...because...well...it's just all too much.

But these women...one of them in particular...went too far in graphically describing the manner in which bodies were found...and collected.

And it was at this point that I uttered an audible, "Please! Do we have to?"

I don't know....maybe I am too sensitive but I hate hearing such tragedies talked about in a gossipy, impersonal manner. I hate hearing death spoken about in such a dispassionate way, with no respect or honor...These were people's loved ones, not items of news to be discussed so openly and graphically.

I should have opened my mouth and said as such.

In a field of sunflowers.

I have been rehearsing with Weave Movement Theatre. We have been working on a project called Appropriate Behaviour. It's been interesting watching the development of the piece. I have loved every second.

In the opening scene I have a line. All of us have a different line that we all deliver together. I don't know why I chose this particular statement. We all start off trying very hard not to say it; censoring ourselves until eventually the whole statement explodes out. For some reason I have found it challenging. The emotions that simmer inside are sometimes even hard to cope with. Yesterday it was suggested that I could pull back on it a bit if it was too much.

Somehow I don't want to. I both love and hate that this line stirs something in me. I feel that if I held back the emotion of the line it wouldn't be authentic, it wouldn't be me. My daughter told me yesterday that I'm acting, it's not supposed to be me. But I need it to have a bit of me in there. I can't not be me...and part of that involves feeling things authentically. I can't help it.

Like I said, I both love and hate this aspect of me. These things are hard to feel but I never want to stop feeling them.

This morning as I waited for my coffee I looked at the first few pages of the newspaper with the photographs of the faces of the Victorian children who died on Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17. I wept as I saw the mother of those children being supported by family and friends. My heart just ached for her. I just wanted to sit in the street and howl for her; weep and sob until there were no more tears and then weep and sob some more. It's not fair. Innocent children. Children who died with their grandfather in the skies and then came to rest in a field of sunflowers. What's the world coming to when a plane carrying innocents is shot down? My mind just cannot even begin wrap itself around that reality.

As cruel as this reality is, I don't ever want to stop feeling so intensely about it. I don't ever want to get to a point where I am numb and blank and I just keep on going with my regular life unaffected and untouched. I want to howl with grief for these children and these families. I want to continue to hurt and rage and feel it. I want us all to continue to feel it because if we don't then how can the world be changed? How will these cruel and heartless people who perpetuate such crimes be stopped? Do they feel? Do they feel at all? Do they go home at night and look at their sleeping children, or lover or parents and feel afraid for their safety and thank whatever god they believe in that they're sleeping peacefully warm in their beds?

We've got to keep feeling...and feeling the hard stuff. I never want to not care!

I want to always weep for the children who came to rest in a field of sunflowers.

La la la la...not listening!

Please excuse me as I go about playing ostrich for a while and attempt to stick my head in the sand when it comes to current world news.

It's not that I don't care; I do. I care deeply. I can't begin to comprehend what those poor passengers on Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17 went through in their final few seconds. I weep along with their families and send prayers into the heavens for them.

My mind just can't fathom as to why this has happened. A plane full of civilians -  families, couples, children, business people, researchers. No one dangerous or a threat to world peace...so why them?

Accusations are flying. One government blames another, rebel troops or terrorists are suspected. Fingers point at the Ukraine and the Russians.

And it's because of all the political finger-pointing that I want to bury my head in the sand. If my Nanna were here she'd be watching all the political stuff play out and see the spiritual significance in everything - ancient  prophesies coming to pass, the heralding of the Second Coming...all the things that used to scare the bejeebus out of me as a kid. And it really did. It was like it was always going to happen any single second now or maybe tomorrow and I was neither prepared nor looking forward to it all as I was supposed to be. I was terrified with a capital TERRIFIED.

A little girl should never have to bear the weight of such things. A little girl should never have to be so afraid...and even now I don't think I ever really got to properly process all those things and put then into an educated perspective. I know this to be true because as I watched the events of 9/11 unfold live on my TV screen in living colour all those years ago I honestly believed I was watching the beginning of the end. There's also something about today that awakens those same terrified responses of that same little girl. The naming of the political suspects is relevant to things I heard and read as a child.

So tonight I have closed the doors and windows to the world outside. I know this doesn't stop the reality of what is going on out there but it gives a reprieve. We have guests tonight and it's been lovely to just bask in their company and share some warm food and laughter. It reminds us that goodness still exists...and in fact that there are more good people in the world than evil. It's just that sometimes evil makes more noise and demands more attention, making it seem as though it is more prevalent.

Love and light to the victims and families and all those affected by the tragic loss of Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17. Know that the hearts of the world are beating along with yours as we share in your grief. May mature heads prevail at this time and that any decisions that are made by the powers that be are ones made in the best interest of all humanity, not simply because they believe that justice must be served.

Adult clinics at The Kids

Unfortunately there are no Bone Dysplasia/Genetics Clinics set up for adults of short stature, however our team of specialists do us all a favour and sneak anyone over the age of 18 into their clinics at the Royal Children's Hospital. They are keen to offer us this service and are interested in following people with dwarfism throughout all stages of life so as to get a better understanding of our condition and to make sure that we all remain healthy.

On Tuesday it was my turn. I'd been waiting to see the specialists for a couple of months, to chat with them about how I was travelling, my training schedule and some MRI results I received last year so I was pleased when I received a phone call on Monday saying that there had been a cancellation at the clinic and would I like it?

It's a whole new ball game going to the Children's Hospital not as a mother but as myself and for myself. There wasn't any underlying tension or anxiety. Lovely, but strange.

I was seen pretty much straight away by one of the new kids on the block. When my kids were really young I used to hate seeing new doctors, or students or interns. I worried that they wouldn't know their stuff, that we'd be given wrong information, that they'd miss something important. I said as such to one of our most trusted, now retired spinal surgeons once. I told him, "Mr D, I hope these students are just as good as you." He smiled, looked at me and said, "Mrs W, I trust that they're better than me." 

After that day I relaxed considerably and learned to trust these new doctors. After all, if Mr D had faith in them who was I to question that?

Anyway, I was seen by a lovely young female doctor and we had a great chat about how I was going. She already knew a lot about me from the pre-clinic meeting the doctors and specialists always have so it was kind of nice not having to go through the same old story once again. She encouraged me in my fitness endeavours and said that I looked strong and healthy.

After we chatted, Associate Professor Ravi came in to say hi and have a chat. Ravi has known our family for eighteen years. We first met him on the day our youngest daughter was diagnosed with her condition. He and I are the same age...although he is TWO MONTHS OLDER which I never fail to mention to him as he ribs me about getting older. (he teases me about grey hair, I tell him that I'm grateful that I have hair...unlike him!) We chatted about my general health and he encouraged me to keep up with my running and fitness programs as there was plenty of evidence to suggest that it would ensure that I will stay active and healthy well into old age. He did caution me to listen to my body and not to push myself if my dodgy knee was acting up or if I was starting to become exhausted. I was encouraged to keep mixing up the training - swimming, massages (yes please!) yoga or just a simple walk. Staying active and listening to my body are the keys to my continued health and mobility.

We also talked a bit about my mental health. Ravi said I looked healthy and happy. We talked about how long it took me to succumb to the mental pressures of raising children with multiple issues. Whilst I had been feeling guilty about maintaining a facade of being strong, having it all together and living in denial for so long, Ravi told me that it was possibly the thing that kept me going, that kept me strong and made sure that we could all continue doing life as we did. He said that if I hadn't have kept that up the reality of everything would have crushed me. Paraphrasing what he said I think I get the impression that sometimes a bit of denial and dogged determination is a good thing.

And honestly, when it came to the day of the final spinal fusion, I really didn't think I had it in me to have to watch one of my children go through that one more time...but that dogged determination and a little bit of denial kicked in and we did it one more time.  I held my child's hand as they had their anaesthetic one more time,  held on to her as she had hallucinations from the ketamine...and watched as she learned to walk again.

So all this time I had been feeling guilty for putting up the facade I didn't need to. It's a necessary and vital part of being a parent of a child with a disability or difference. You do what you need to do to get through.

My appointment at the clinic on Tuesday was kind of cathartic in a way. I felt as though I had finally put some things to rest from my mothering years, along with getting the official go-ahead to keep on going with my running. I told Ravi that I didn't know what I would do if I didn't have approval to keep running because it's done more for my mental health and self-acceptance than any session I've had with a counsellor. Ravi said that we don't know what's ahead for me really, but while I am fit and well it is important to keep LIVING!

And that's what I plan on doing. 

A personal, public victory.

I'm a private person really.

(Says she who writes a blog)

OK, so let's define this properly. Maybe its not that I'm private as much as it being difficult to be out in public sometimes. Up until I launched into this running caper I did have an aversion to doing anything out in public that would draw any extra attention to myself.

It wasn't always that way. I never used to give it all much thought really. Of course I knew that staring, double takes and comments went on but I kind of just accepted it all as part and parcel of this whole gig and was pretty good at just getting on with it.

Then I had a really rough few years where a number of incidents dealt me with severe personal blows and I found that everything I ever felt about myself and everything I ever believed in came crashing down in one chaotic mess. My self esteem took an incredible blow and I became very unsure of myself and my place in the world.

In my traumatized state I felt very...on display. I can't describe the feeling any better than that. I felt like a fool, a joke, and that everyone out there had been laughing at me for years and I simply hadn't noticed. I wanted to be invisible so I could get on with the task of putting myself back together again, but I couldn't because this achondroplasia thing guaranteed that any form of trying to be invisible in public was not going to happen. As a result I stopped anything that would bring me too much attention - public speaking, performance, getting out on a dance floor, even bringing along a plate of food to share at a function would cause me incredible anxiety.

Then, somehow, I discovered running. At first I only did circuits of the reserve across the road from my house. Initially this was confronting for me as it was a public place, so I made sure that I went over there as early as possible so there wouldn't be many people. Running over there was my safe place. I was alone. I was OK. Eventually as summer came there would be more people out and about early...but by this time, running had started to reawaken my confidence. The early morning joggers and dog walkers started to become "my people" and I began to greet them with a cheery "Good morning!".

Leisa was coming back.

I entered my first Fun Run. This was a challenge because I knew I'd be running in the city with all those people! However there were enough people around for me to feel kind of safe in a sense. Only the people immediately around me would notice me...and I could deal with that. Doing my first Run for the Kids was my first big public challenge...and I survived it.

I still prefer running early and with as few people around as possible but if it doesn't happen it's no big deal. There are times when I won't run, like when there's a crowd over at the reserve watching the local  junior football and cricket teams - I avoid that kind of attention - but for the most part I'll get out there whenever I can fit a run in.

Last night I reflected upon all this as I changed into my running gear after work and took a run around Albert Park Lake in the city. Here I was, at 4:30pm at the beginning of peak hour traffic, running around one of the more public tracks in Melbourne where the actual track runs parallel to some of the busiest roads. How far I have come! It's a given that I would have been noticed by other commuters. Heck! I even notice the runners as I drive past the lake. Once I even noticed another short statured runner! But the joy of running vastly outweighs any self consciousness I feel. When I finished the 5k circuit I felt triumphant - not just because I'd finished the run with my best time yet, but because I felt I'd had such a personal victory...and it was achieved in public...where it possibly had the most impact for me.

And we remained silent

I have to admit, I actually like sitting on the train and looking out the window for a good bit of artful graffiti.

I wonder if there's a business in commissioning this kind of art? Would young artists be keen to be paid to splash some colour on a wall of some building somewhere?

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I mean....how cool is this? I'd imagine the artist would've been paid for this?

On the other side, is it the adrenaline rush of doing it illegally that attracts them? I'd love to interview graffiti artists sometime, just to get an insight.

What I can't stand though is this:

And for the most part, this is the kind of artwork I get to look at every day as I travel the trains to my workplace. Most Melbourne commuters get to see this I would imagine.

The other night as I was travelling home a group of young people boarded the train from one of the stations in the City Loop. There were possibly about six young people in the group. They were loud, bold, brash and fearless, playing loud music through speakers attached to an iPad. They would traverse through the carriage and travel outside the carriage to smoke on occasion, sometimes finishing off their cigarette in the carriage. They talked loudly about items they had stolen and the tracks they had taken to escape police. It was as though we, the other commuters, did not exist. We were just a part of the environment. They paid no heed to the discomfort the woman sitting next to them was displaying as they pumped music through the speakers. They casually brought out spray cans and sprayed graffiti tags on the walls and doors of the train, knowing that no one would stop them or question them.

Like I said, they were fearless.

And we, the rest of the commuters, all sat and did nothing. No one challenged them. We collectively just sat there and let it all play out. We were in the majority. If we all had've banded together we could have stopped them or at least confronted them. But no one did. We all just sat in silence, knowing that if someone had've confronted the group it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference. None of us wanted to endure a torrent of abuse or worse from these young people.

I felt my inner rage boiling and simmering and I wished I could've done something as I know my father would have. Even though he is approaching seventy my father would not be able to help himself and I know he would confront the group. I love him for that. I wanted to tell them to, "Sit down, shut up and behave yourself!" as he would do, but the physical me just wanted to make myself invisible and not call any extra attention to myself. I get enough attention simply walking around so I am afraid of confrontation that will draw extra attention - and possibly abuse.

So I did what the rest of the carriage did. I shut up and did nothing and wondered when it was that adults became afraid of standing up to behaviour that needed addressing. I wondered when it was that young people became so big and self important that they no longer cared about anything - not the rights of other people, not the respect for public property, nothing. I wondered if I'd forgotten what it was like to be young. Did my friends and I have total disregard for others when out in public? Yes we could be loud and over excited but if an adult asked us to tone it down a bit we would have. I remember travelling the trains with a group of friends whilst in Sydney but it never entered our heads to deface it. What has changed?

Eventually, the young people left the train. As they approached their station the tension mounted in the group as they tried to discern where the police were stationed and planned their escape routes. I assumed they were known to police. I wondered what was going to become of those young people. Would one of them take things too far one day and come to an early end? Would they eventually grow up and become responsible and then one day be sitting in my position, feeling resentful that their taxes are used to clean up other people's mess?

After the group left, you could see the collective tension dissipate from the rest of the commuters. Perhaps we all felt relieved of the expectation we all felt that we should have been doing something and didn't. I wonder what it would have taken?

And I couldn't help but think of this:

Distance, Time and Preparedness

I read quite a lot about running these days. I guess it's something everyone does when they're really into something. You research it, glean insights from others, inform yourself with the latest research and apply what you learn to your own experience.

I read about how to hydrate and fuel myself properly, stretching, cross training, tapering, timing, shoes, cramps, blisters, the benefits of running trails, hills, taking it easy, pushing myself, preparing myself mentally.

The big thing most runners seem to talk about is times - improving them, beating your own PB, when to push yourself, being confident.

It's something I am trying to focus on with my own running. I'd like to get better times and run faster. I have a 10 km run coming up on July 27 and I would really like to do it in 1hr 15min. I kind of need to as I have a performance straight afterwards!  To date my best time for a 10 km distance is 1 hr 23 min.  I'm really going to have to push it, aren't I? Considering that I also have to tackle Anderson St which is a nasty, nasty hill I'm wondering if I've set the benchmark too high.

Anderson St. I would rather run up the Bolte Bridge - and that's saying something!

But honestly,  for the most part, timing doesn't really bother me too much. It probably should,  but it doesn't.  When I enter into these races my entire focus is on finishing them; to see that finish line ahead of me and know that I've done it. I've achieved a goal I set myself. That seems to be the most important thing. Once I've done it and survived and I know it's achievable then my thoughts turn to doing it faster.

The Run for the Kids 15 km this year was all about survival...and honestly that was what it felt like. It was hard. I couldn't believe how hard it was. Now that I've done it though and I know that I can, next year it will be all about beating my time. I did it in 2 hours and 20 minutes this year. Can I get it down to 2 hours by next March? That's the goal I've set.

To do that, I know that I'll have to complete a half - marathon between now and then. It's mind game you see. If I do a half - marathon then a 15km Fun Run will be a walk in the park. They're the kinds of mental games I play. Like, when I did my first 5km Fun Run I had to make sure that I had run a distance of 8km so that when I lined up at the start I mentally knew that I could do it.

The flip side of all that is that when I have achieved a certain distance it becomes like a benchmark and any distance under that feels like slacking off. I do it with swimming too. Up until last Tuesday I was swimming 30 laps of a 50 metre pool. My PT challenged me to up it to 35. I was really reluctant to because my mind said, "Once you do 35 laps then you'll have to KEEP doing 35 laps every single week or else anything under that will be....failing."

(I only just realized that was the word as I wrote it.)

I'm very aware of the fact that after completing the Run for the Kids in March I haven't run a distance of 15 km since. I've run 11 km and that's the longest distance, despite setting a goal of 16 km into my RunKeeper pretty much straight after the R4K. To be honest though, I've found it difficult being dedicated to distances since the changing of the seasons and the fewer daylight hours. My optimum running time is 6 am but with the coming of winter it's still pitch black at that time. I'm going to come out and say it...I don't like running in the dark. I watch the News.....

So...I guess winter has given me the opportunity to concentrate on my times as I get out there later in the morning and only have a limited time to run before getting ready for work. Fast fives really are fast fives. At the moment I'm concentrating on maintaining bursts of speed, controlling my breathing and technique.  Working with my PT has made me aware of the muscles I need to fire up to give me power and to maintain my posture. I've learned the value of recovery.

I still struggling with the false idea that I'm slacking off. I think that's the residual rubbish from the patterns set down by the old eating disorder many moons ago...but I cannot deny the results in the mirror and, most importantly, the general feeling of strength and wellness that is consistently mine these days.

Fluff

As you can tell, this week I am taking a break from all things serious and concentrating on some of the whimsical fluff that flits about my head from time to time.

I forgot I had an OzSale Membership, so when I remembered I spent a bit of time browsing the sales there...

And may have bought this:

 And this.....

From Rising International who source their fair trade handmade garments from Nepal. They're 100% cotton. I am a wee hippie at heart, love this stuff and adore the colours. We Melbournians don't wear enough colour (says she who is predominantly in black and grey today). 

Looking at those sleeves I see there's a little scope for taking them up and there are no cuffs to bother with so it will just be a case of lopping a couple of inches off and hemming them. No biggie. I can do that myself. Chances are, I won't though. Strange thing is that I have gotten used to sleeves being longer than my arm so when something is taken up it feels too short. 

Can't get away with it with pants though. At all. That would just look stupid. 

Yep...that's pretty much what happens when you're 117cm (3'10") and you buy a pair of jeans.

The reason for Saggy Pants.

Ever wondered why guys go about looking like this?

Because they want to look just like us!

I always knew we were pretty cool. It's just taken a little longer for the cool people of the world to realise it. Ha!

Roll on summer!

You want to know something? I miss summer something fierce. 

My girls swimming in a friends pool.

Delicious summer fruits in rainbow colours

Bleached grasses. 

The windy jetty. 

Walks along the beach encountering impossible things.

Even the dog becomes a sunworshipper. 

Get back to work....or....just get a job!

So word on the streets, and around, and about.....well, everywhere really is that our esteemed government is bringing in hefty changes to our welfare system so that they can reduce the national deficit.

That's the way I understand it anyway. I'm not going to pretend I'm au fait with all things political but I do know that the Australian Welfare System is under heavy scrutiny and the fallout is not going to be pretty. From where I stand it looks as though the rich are pretty much going to stay rich and the poor, the battlers and the disabled are going to have to be the people who suck it in and bear the brunt of these cuts.

It's most certainly not going to be in your favour if you're young, unemployed, seeking work, disabled or elderly that's for sure.

The two areas that raises concern for my loved ones are the reviews of the Disability Support Pension and Newstart Allowance. Every time I hear these mentioned in the news these days my ears prick up and my heart drops. None of the news I hear is positive and the demonising language that is being used in the media to describe recipients of DSP in particular is extremely hurtful.

The President of People With Disabilities, Mr Craig Wallace stated:

“Headlines like this one talking about people with disabilities as rorters, bludgers, slackers, slouchers, that kind of language that we have seen over the past couple of months, reduces and trashes and destroys the brand of people with disabilities to employers. I say right here, we are not rorters, we are not slackers,” (Source)

I couldn't agree with him more.

In short though, from what I understand from the review into welfare, the government simply wants people with a disability to get out there and get a job. If you have some capacity to work, then you should be working. Plain and simple, right?

Wrong! It's all well and good to talk about getting people on DSP out into the workplace...but is there going to be an accompanying change in attitude from businesses in regards to actually employing people with disabilities? There are people with disabilities out there who want to work and try long and hard to find suitable employment to no avail. They actively comply with their Participation Agreement with Centrelink with no rewards.

This issue is particularly close to me because recently, someone I love finally got word via their Job Support Agency that a large, national company had agreed to employ them for fifteen hours a week according to the stipulations Centrelink had set. This person was so eager and happy to finally gain employment. They worked hard and stated that they enjoyed the work they were given. Most of all, they were thrilled to be out there in the community, earning a living, interacting with fellow employees and the general public. They came home fulfilled and satisfied.

Then the Budget happened.....and along with it came the cuts to support funding for companies who employed people with disabilities. Two days later, the young person was told that the large, national company could no longer employ them due to the cessation of the employment support funding. To say that the young person was devastated would be an understatement. They said to me that they would even work for FREE if the company would let them - just to be DOING something, contributing to something bigger than themselves, being amongst people, was enough.

Don't tell me that people on DSP are rorters, bludgers, slackers and slouchers. How many politicians in Canberra would say that they'd be happy to work for free just so that they could feel as though they were contributing something to the community?

I have never known an Australian government so out of touch with reality, so uncaring of it's people.

So we sit and wait to see what is to become of us...and while we wait the chasm between the rich and the poor stretches wider and wider. I worry about the future of our country and it's people. I really do.