Mile Markers: Anything Is Everything

If I do ordinary things in a careless, half-assed way, it will become my trademark.


Since my 30K, I have been frustratingly sluggish, tight and heavy on my runs. Even the five-mile loop felt like 15. I could not shake this out-of-shape feeling, so I went to my chiropractor for a fix. I wanted him to tell me whether I should pull out of my upcoming 50K so I didn’t have to own it.

He asked me about my race, and I told him how I felt really good out there, how I ran strong and steady and had fun. It was just afterward that the wheels started to fall off. Especially an ache in my left heel, which worried me about potential plantar fasciitis, but I refused to think about it.

He assured me plantar is on the bottom of your heel, not the back. Whew. He checked me over like a good mechanic, pausing when he got to my ankle. “Hmmmm,” he said, with a quizzical look on his face, feeling around. He pulled my foot, turning my ankle at the same time.

POP. And I mean LOUD. It didn’t hurt, but the sound made me queasy and filmy with cold sweat.

“Uh, okay. What was that?” I asked, suddenly lightheaded.

“Did you fall in your race?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, I did. I forgot to tell you that. Yes. My shin and ankle were scraped up and I’ve had a big bruise on my calf since then. It’s fine, though. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Next time you fall come see me right away, please.” he said. “You totally rolled your ankle and popped it out of place when you fell. The POP was it going back in. No wonder your heel hurt. You should never have run on that, and it would not have gone back into place on its own. You aren’t out of shape. You are injured, Kristin.”

No wonder I felt like such crap. Then I felt like crap for feeling like crap. I think it’s time for me to stop calling pain “weakness” and start listening to my body. Or at least listen to people who are smarter about my body than I am apparently.

The next day I went out and ran 15 miles and it felt like five. Yeah, baby. Game back on! I’ve lost two weeks of training, however, so I have work to do.

In my prechiro convalescence, I went to yoga one early, rainy morning. Our teacher put us into a very challenging pose and left us there, breathing and sweating.

“Uncomfortable?” she asked.

We panted and groaned. Sweat dripped off my nose and plopped like rain onto my mat.

“Good,” she said. “The sooner you learn to relax, the better. Pay attention, people. Breathe deeply and listen to what I am about to say.”

I tuned into her instead of tuning into the whining voice in my head. I was ready to give up this pose already.

She spoke clearly and quietly, “Be here right now. Fully. Focus on this moment. This is all there is. How you do anything is how you do everything. So pay attention.”

How you do anything is how you do everything.

Damn, that’s good. I must have said this to myself at least 100 times since then. It changes everything, if you let it.

How I hold a yoga pose. How I finish my track workout. How I treat my body. What I make for dinner. How I speak to my children. How I greet a stranger. How I drive in traffic. How I write my final paper. How I keep myself sane and centered. How I separate laundry (or don’t). How I pack lunches. How I budget. How I schedule my day.

If I do simple, ordinary things in a careless, half-assed way, it will become my trademark. Maybe not all at once, but slowly it will. That’s how weight creeps on, relationships fizzle out, kids go astray, dreams fade, and good assignments go to other writers. But on the bright side, consider this.

If we do simple, ordinary things in a mindful, intentional way, this will become our trademark. When we pay attention. When we care enough to be present and tune in. When we remember that the little things add up to become the big things.

When we find a way to incorporate love into anything we do, it works its way into everything we do. And one day, perhaps, love will simply be who we are.

How you do anything is how you do everything.

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