Some of my indoor plants are on a field trip to the great outdoors. There have been a lot of plant deaths lately (my fault) and since I'm trying to pull myself together, I thought caring for the living beings in my house would be a good start. Some of the plants needed to be replaced (because they were dead), but some just needed new homes. Others have been inhibited by location and needed a field trip to expose them to light on all sides.

The guy in the middle behind Sharky McSharkface lives outside, so he's not on a field trip like his buddies he's surrounded by.

I just moved back to San Diego after being gone about ten years, and am still working on my thesis. All the uncertainty and stress before moving, as well as the moving, getting settled, and trying to find my new routine, has led to a massive increase in anxiety. After getting my care interrupted by the move, I've found my way back to the same psychiatry department as when my dad died. They're renovating the outside, but the waiting room looks the same. Addictions on the first floor, psychiatry on the second. When I find myself feeling embarrassed, I'm reminded we're all visiting the same department and no one really has room to judge. Second therapist in a row to tell me I need to have more compassion for myself. I can't figure out what that's supposed to look like.

Sometimes it helps to care for another living being. I don't know, maybe I'm cheating. Maybe I'm using my plants to practice compassion on something else....besides myself. But I can't expect to pull myself together when I've got crispy dead plants lying all over my house.

A huge issue was the death of Stuart and his housemates. Stuart was a venus flytrap that I've had for about a year. That's quite a bit longer than I can keep most plants alive, so that and the fact that we both eat meat created a bonding experience between us. He lived in a terrarium with two air plants. He's tropical, so he's supposed to get a lot of sun and water. I only have two windows in my apartment and he didn't work real well near either of them, so he was placed on the counter near the kitchen where he only got indirect light. One day in July, I decided I'd take him outside to get some sun. I forgot about him..... and it was during a pretty extreme heat wave. When I got home and saw his withered brown limbs, I panicked. I had killed him for sure. Mike and Carrie tried to make me feel better, like maybe he'd make it. Long story short, he didn't. And neither did his roommates. Finally, over a month later, I have replaced Stuart and his roommates with as-of-yet unnamed plants, and added a little sand castle.

They are currently sunning themselves on my coffee table.

And then there's this guy. This guy deserves another shot at life.

He used to live on top of my bookcase. I'm guessing the reason he ended up under-watered is because I'm short and either had to bring him down to water him, or stand on the chaise lounge and squirt him with my water bottle. He used to be a pretty big, full, plant with lots of bright green vines. All of those vines died except this one. I decided I wanted to try to save him, but having a scrawny looking plant on top of a big bookcase was depressing. I dug him out of the pot he was living in (see the white pot behind him with little orange flowers that now houses a bright philodendron), managed to save some of the roots attached to him, and gently set him in this little pot with loosely packed soil. I feel like his demise is inevitable, but I really hope he makes it. From my experience in emergency medicine, I understand what it takes to keep a human alive, but plants are a different story. If he lives through being parched to the brink of death, dug from his home and plunged into a smaller pot, I'm going to give him a name. Something heroic and courageous. I don't know why it causes me so much despair to lose a plant.

This guy lives on the second shelf down on my bookcase. I have no idea why he's doing so well. I've had him maybe 6 to 8 months.

But you can see that he's got one arm sticking way out.... because it's the only one that really gets any light. This is why he's outside right now. I'd like the rest of him to get some sun and even out a bit. Maybe I should be rotating him occasionally? If only plants could talk.

This is one of the new guys. Poor thing was root-bound, and you can see how he's only had one side exposed to the sun as well. He's going to end up on top of the bookcase. Let's hope I give him a little better treatment than I did his predecessor.

This guy replaced another one I killed.... by over-watering. He at least appears a little heartier than the last one.

And lastly, this little guy got a new home. He's been in a plastic pot, living in the bathroom since Carrie brought him over. Carrie has an amazing green thumb. He's not dead yet, so that's something. He comes out every once in awhile to sit on the coffee table and get some sun. Not a lot of light in the bathroom.

As I was re-potting the philodendron, there was a root hanging off one of the vines. Just hanging out in the air. I don't know if the plant was purposely doing that or not, so as I put him in the pot, I tucked his little root into the soil and hoped I was doing the right thing. I suddenly felt like I was caring for a small child, and it struck me as somewhat odd. But maybe plants just need some love and respect, and they'll decide to be friends with you forever.

White Flag

I've been on the verge of throwing up a white flag since my alarm went off this morning. I contemplated going back to sleep, but instead got up and poured coffee for Mike and I. I placed his on his bedside table, and took mine back to bed as well, and sipped it in the dark. I watched red numbers change on the alarm clock on the dresser.

I made it to the gym, but since I'm tapering for my marathon this Sunday, I just did an easy half hour of weights. It rained on my way home and while I showered. I had no desire to go teach my class. Early in the semester I have high hopes for my class, thinking if I just do something differently, they will care. They will come to class (on time), listen to my lecture, do their homework, and study for quizzes and exams. I realize you can't control other people's actions, but I also realize you can inspire them to take action.

I don't know what it takes to inspire an 18 year old to be responsible. I don't know how responsible I was as an 18 year old. I have a hint though... I recently read one of my diary entries from around that time, where I complained that my dad was being unreasonable for getting angry at me that he had been telling me for a week to do the dishes. A week. We rotated through chores at my house, and one week my chore was the dishes. Apparently that week, the dishes just continued piling up until my dad finally did them and left me a detailed bill. How unfair! He didn't realize how busy and stressed I was. How dare he!

Today is not only Monday, but it's also the first day back to the real world since Thanksgiving break. And I gave my class a quiz. I know, I'm a jerk. But they had fair warning, they knew it was coming. As we all stood out in the hallway waiting for the previous class to exit, I spotted a student that doesn't normally come to class. I figured he was there because we had a quiz. That's when most students decide to show up. When I was handing back homework, I noticed he wasn't there. That was odd. With the way our nation is going, I figure a university is a prime location for an active shooter. Last semester I would habitually bring up the contact info for the University Police, have it set so that all I had to do was open the phone and push a button, and set it on my table in front of me. Should something happen, I had the number ready. I haven't done that in awhile as I've been fairly comfortable with my students this semester. When that student showed up in the hallway, but never entered the classroom, I set up my phone again- ready to dial University Police in a second. While the students were taking their quiz, I searched through the homework they all turned in for his name, and found it. That explained it. He had dropped off his homework, didn't know there was a quiz because he rarely comes to class, and went home.

With two minutes left of the quiz, another student walked in. I handed him his quiz and told him he had two minutes. Three minutes later, I told everyone to hand their quizzes up. While students passed their quizzes to the front of the class, the late student came up to me with his quiz and tried to explain why he was late and why I should let him do the quiz after class. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other students watching the exchange. He said he just got back (from being on vacation). I told him there were a few other students who were traveling back today and I told them they'd be unable to make up the quiz- it wouldn't be fair to allow him to. He said "Well yesterday I just had a bunch of things to do...and if I had known there was going to be a quiz, I probably could've made it on time."

It's amazing the miracles that could've happened if you had just known.

I told him there was no reason to be late to my class, and that the other students had known about the quiz, so why didn't he? Had he not been to the last several classes? He thought for a moment, then said he had been there (I doubt it).

"But this is a lot of points..." he argued.

"It is a lot of points. But I can't let you make it up and not let the other students make it up."

He tried a few more times while the rest of the class watched. Then he handed me his quiz, with one answer scribbled in, and sat down. I started to pull up the power point lecture, and he grabbed his stuff and walked out. I continued with what I was saying for a second, and then stopped. The class had watched the entire exchange. The student had been there all of five minutes. Two of them he had spent arguing with me. Sometimes I think it's more appropriate to pretend nothing happened. This wasn't one of those times. Maybe it was. Maybe I was just tired. I didn't want to be there either, but there I was.

I faced the class. Wide eyes looking back at me told me they all wondered how I was going to handle this. It wasn't that big of a deal as I get that sort of thing often, just usually after class or in an email. But it was Monday for all these students, the Monday after vacation.

"I know it's Monday. What's worse is that we're all coming back from being on vacation. And some students were not able to make it back in time for the quiz. I know you guys don't want to be here right now, and I know you didn't want to take a quiz this morning. But you guys made it here, and it's a good thing that you did. Because sometimes in life we have to do things we don't want to do. I'm sorry it's Monday, and I'm sorry you had a quiz. But you did it. And you all know you can't make up a quiz without a doctor's note, and I need to keep it fair for everyone."

There were some nods in the group. I moved on to our projected schedule for the remaining couple of weeks of class. We went over the Finals schedule and I made sure everyone (who was there) understood that the Finals schedule is made by the university and not me.... and therefore cannot be changed by me.

As I went into the lecture, the student who had been late and argued with me, came back into class, stuffing things into his backpack. He seems like a nice enough student and didn't seem threatening at all to me, even as he argued. He was not tense or angry, just embarrassed and desperate. I went on with the lecture and the remainder of the class period went peacefully.

When I got home, I ate lunch and sat down to grade the quizzes. Three quizzes in, I just couldn't keep going. I'm all out of drive. I want to curl under the blankets in the darkness of my room, and shut the world out.

But I want time to stop too, so that I don't fall (further) behind. I'm supposed to be writing a paper... but not until I figure out what to do with my new data. I'm supposed to be grading quizzes and homework, but it's zapping my will to go on.

I've decided to take a different approach to my class next semester... as I always do. New Year's resolutions of a sort. New Semester's resolutions. They are definitely getting quizzed on the syllabus. They will also get a more in depth introduction of myself. I usually don't give them very much background, but I think most of them believe I'm only a couple years older than them and don't really have any life experiences. Maybe I can be a little more inspirational next semester. It's too late for this class.... there is no hope.

Midterm

Today my bones hurt. I stand in front of my class watching them take a midterm exam. I handed out crisp, clean, white exams. One by one, they drop them off at my desk in the front of the room, covered in ink (the brave) or pencil scratch, stacked on top of their cheat sheets. One girl turns in more than one cheat sheet, and now I’m faced with an issue I didn’t anticipate. Do I subtract points from her exam? My ankle bone hurts. Which is interesting because to my knowledge, I have never injured the bone in my ankle. Maybe it’s the cyst that’s apparently growing out of my joint.

I sip cold coffee as the room slowly empties. Three students remain. The construction outside provides a constant loud hum that I’ve managed to tune out. The stack of exams on my desk grows larger and I wonder who does more work for these things- myself or my students?

Rubble

After returning home from the Northern California wildfires, I dropped all my gear on the floor, ate a sandwich from the sack lunch provided by the fire, and peeled off my clothes. My feet had been in my old fire boots for 26 hours. I crawled in to bed to tack on a third hour to the two broken hours of sleep I had gotten out on the fire the night before. When I woke up, I was cranky and felt helpless. I took a hot bath. Mike texted and asked what I needed. "Dinner" I replied. I managed to put all my gear away before he made it over.

After eating, I crawled into the soft down comforter of my own bed. As I closed my eyes, I found myself surrounded by the rubble and char of Fountain Grove, the leveled community I had spent the night in, conducting LiDAR scans from our mobile research truck. I let the images play in my head. Dispatch informed Night Ops of another fire, and that the caller had said "People are running". Night Ops responded with an order to get on RedCom and order up anyone and everyone who might have resources available. They were going to lose another town.

I sank into a deep sleep.

This morning, as my mind raced with all my uncompleted tasks, the horrors of the last 24 hours, and my own insignificance, Mike tells me to save all those thoughts for my run. I wondered how far I'd have to run to escape the images of all the wreckage, and evacuees holding hands, comforting each other. I wonder how long I will need to press my feet to the pavement to out run the thought of an ocean of fire rolling over people as they desperately tried to escape. And people wonder why so many are still missing. But people, like animals, look exactly like everything else when all that's left is char.

I told Mike I felt worthless. I wasn't out saving people, or saving their homes. I had stood and stared at the rubble, over coffee heated in a JetBoil on the bed of the pickup truck, hoping that morning was not the day they'd let survivors back in to see if their homes still stood. When I was fighting fires in San Diego, we had driven past homes completely destroyed. Families sifted through the burned remains, looking for any token of their lives before the fire. Those days, fighting fire wasn't fun. Fighting fire was fun when it didn't kill anyone or destroy anyone's home. It hurts to watch others come to realize their grief. I've inherited my father's empathy.

"You paid your dues" Mike responded. I don't know. When is it really enough? Some people spend their whole lives fighting fire. Me, just a small fraction. But you can't keep pushing yourself to do something you no longer love. It takes the life out of it.

I put on my shoes and went out into the brisk morning. I started to jog and the impact jostled my bones. I was exhausted. I thought about the neighborhood we were advised not to go in, because they were still searching. For people. Or what was left of them. I had a 16 mile run scheduled for yesterday and made a plan to make that up on this run. 16 miles should make all this go away.

I needed to write the midterm for my class, analyze the computer simulation of the winds driving the fires, go shopping. My breath started to even out and my legs strode forward on their own. I'm not sure what it is about cars that melts into a bright silver liquid when they burn. Maybe the rims? It looks like mercury, shining in the sun. Complete ruins, surrounding an untouched playground. Buildings crumbled to the ground next to a broken pot for a plant. Two cars parked, presumably, in what used to be the garage, next to what looks like was once a lawn mower.

I ran down onto the entrance to the paved creek trail and turned left under the bridge. I came upon a homeless man sitting on a bench, going through his backpack. I wondered "What's the difference?" Thousands of people are now homeless, but this man has probably been homeless for a good portion of his life. My GPS beeped. 1 mile. 7 more to go before I turn around and head home.

I stopped at the park to pee, then continued on. My stomach hurt. I wondered if it was smart to push so hard after having so little sleep in the past couple of days. I just wanted to do whatever it took to make myself feel better. Another beep. 2 miles. I wasn't helping anyone. I wasn't doing anything to make the world a better place, or to save people. I gave up responding to other people's emergencies and embraced the peaceful life, where choices aren't a matter of life and death.

I choked up and held back tears, tried to even my breath again. 16 miles were not going to make this feel better. And maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not supposed to feel ok. Maybe I'm just supposed to feel. I stopped running. I walked for a few more minutes before turning off my GPS.

Buddha taught that we suffer because of our expectations, our view that the world should be a certain way. We fail to see that things just are. People die, houses burn, we're all just ants building our own troubles. I made myself keep walking, trying to look at the fall leaves around me. I crossed over the bridge and looked at the ducks standing on the ledge before the waterfall. I took a few deep breaths and decided to just enjoy the day.

I pushed aside my thoughts about not being ready for the December marathon, not being where I should with my thesis, not saving the world, not being enough. "Be here now". I decided to find a turtle. I walked closer to the creek, glancing around as I did. I smiled and said good morning to others out on the trail. An old couple sat together on a bench. I found my turtle. He sat on a log, still as a statue. His neck stretched toward the sky, soaking up the sun. I stared for a couple minutes and he still didn't move. I walked home.

I had a snack and took a nap. When I awoke, I made the mistake of Googling the "Diablo Winds". My thesis. I wanted to see if my advisor had given me credit for the statistics on the winds that he had desperately asked for, as he was preparing for a radio interview. Because of the wildfires going on just north of here, the most catastrophic in California's history, the entire world was talking about Diablo winds, what they are and the science behind them. There goes my thesis. There goes any self worth I had mustered during my walk home.

Getting back up was tough. I suppose it always is. Hundreds of papers exist on Santa Ana winds, so my one among a few on the Diablos will be fine. I don't know where I read it, but it stuck with me: "You're always okay until you're not". With the memories and emotions of the last couple days draped over my shoulder, I went out to get groceries, grabbing a couple chocolate bars just in case.

Creature Week

The other day as I drove to the gym in the darkness, I started thinking about a weekend swim in the cove. I haven't done an ocean swim since September, so my mental comfort level has dropped a bit. As I walked into the women's locker room, a local news station was playing silently on one of the televisions. The headline along the bottom read "Up next: shark advisory". It went to a commercial.

I locked my things in a locker and tried to locate a tv with that station on as I prepared to warm up on the stationary bike. I saw the story pop up, but it was too far away to see the closed captioning. I had to wait until I got to work to look it up.

Sure enough, the shark advisory was for San Diego. A juvenile great white shark, about 8 feet long, was spotted by a couple of surfers.... last seen headed north. The advisory doesn't affect the cove, which is further north than the shark sighting, but I decided to cancel my open water swim anyway.

It's been Creature Week on The Weather Channel that plays on one of the many tv's in our meteorology office at work. We've been watching sharks, spiders, and snakes.

San Diego has also been having a bee issue lately, with traveling swarms (apparently not Africanized). My roommate told me about a swarm that came around before I got here and she nearly smacked into it. It reminded me to locate my epi-pen and be sure I always know where it is.

So last night, spurred on by all the creature talk of the week, and my upcoming triathlon (in the harbor), I had the craziest dream. I was doing a triathlon, but in a weird order. I ran first, then biked, and then had to attend to someone with an injury. About a half hour or so later, I was done and considered finishing the race. But I was worried because of my ankle injury that I've been rehabbing and wasn't sure I should even do the run. Then I realized I had already made it through the run just fine and only had the swim left. I decided to do it. My transition time would be horrible (like a half hour), but my swim split could still be good.

I quickly pulled on my wetsuit, tearing the ankle cuff in the process. I entered the water near the officials who directed me into a shallow, rocky area. I carefully waded through the rocks. As I came upon larger rocks that forced me to rise up out of the water, I was swarmed by bees. I crawled over the rocks and in front of me lay a deep, dry canyon. On the other side of the canyon, rocks piled up in the form of a wave. As I looked on, a huge wave crashed over the lip of the rocks and flooded the canyon. I was terrified. That kind of power was more than I was trained for. The wave subsided. As  waited for the next one, a giant killer whale flung itself over the rock wall and landed in the canyon in front of me, awaiting the next wave. I would have to swim through the powerful wave.... with a killer whale.

I woke up.

I have a feeling I'm going to have to get my nerves in check before the triathlon. Even in the harbor, I'm going to worry about the creatures of the deep. But being in the water with a hundred other people at least statistically decreases my chance of getting eaten.

Homo sapiens

We are anxious creatures.
Full of expectations of ourselves
and of others.

No one tells you
that for every day you weave flowers into your hair
there will be one you draw the bath
extra hot
to scorch the day from your skin.

The knots in your stomach
and in your shoulders
will compete for dominance
even as your feet glide freely over cool morning concrete
and your lungs expand into the sacred space
of your chest.
Your courageous wings will flap angrily against the weight
of your own insecurities
and you will be stretched thin
between the earth
and the sky.

And you will breathe.
And you will crumble.

And you will breathe.
And you will rise.

No one tells you
the most heinous battles are not fought between countries
or religions,
but rather inside of yourself.
Every part of you will be a rogue soldier
fighting for his own cause
and you will burn down whole villages
built from your bones.

And your skin
will cover it all.

You will carry that skin
with every ounce of bravery you can muster
and for every day that it is a crushing stone,
there will be one in which it is a cape
with super powers.

And you will breathe.

No one tells you

that breathing is enough.

Floor

I knew today was a floor day shortly after 6 am. That early notice was made possible by a 4:30 am wake-up.

I put my foot in a hole while running in December. It seemed ok, nothing seemed injured. I kept running. I had been running since then, with intermittent swelling and pain that I attributed to achilles tendinitis. After a hilly half marathon in March, my ankle swelled substantially. The swelling was all in the front, the pain was all in the back. I made a doctor's appointment. Several appointments, an x-ray, an MRI, two doctors, and one physical therapist later, I have posterior ankle impingement due to os trigonum syndrome, and capsulitis thanks to the hole in the snow. I am in the middle of ten weeks of physical therapy, making a shoe switch, having orthotics modified by a sports medicine podiatrist, and following a "return to run" program. I am trying my best to stay positive. In my opinion, an athlete's strength can be measured by his or her ability to endure in the face of adversity. All athletes get injured.

I can cycle, as long as I don't stand on the pedals much. I can swim, as long as I don't kick. I can do weight training as long as it doesn't bother my ankle. I can now run 30 minutes at time, at a moderate pace, on flat ground. All doctor-approved.

Last week my physical therapist scolded me for wearing flip flops (it was 91 degrees outside) because it encourages my big toe to curl, and she's trying to get it to go in the opposite direction. I talked about going barefoot, but then I'd burn my feet, and then what?

"Well then you'd be forced to take a break!" she exclaimed.

I kept quiet and focused on my exercises. But it made me wonder if she didn't approve of the return to run program that my podiatrist had outlined for me. I didn't ask. Later that day she told me how impressed she was with my foot strength. "Good job!" Ok, I guess I'm doing alright.

Sometimes kicking happens while swimming. Actually, my podiatrist said not to kick, my therapist said to try to start kicking so that we can improve my functional range of motion. I'm trying to pick a happy medium. I try to do a little light kicking. After my swim, I run. I'm always stiff and heavy after swimming, as if my body has forgotten what to do with gravity. After my post-swim runs, my ankle is generally a little sore. I don't remember if I'm allowed soreness. When I run on Saturdays, there is no soreness, and I decide I must be doing ok. I am constantly in doubt of my progression.

Last week's meeting with the podiatrist, she told me I was coming along real well. I guess so.

Tuesday's post-swim run left me stiff and sore. And I wonder again, if I'm doing too much. Add onto that my sore wrist from helping Mike move and I can't help but be frustrated with my body as a whole. My wrist hurts more than my ankle, which is either a good sign for my ankle or a bad sign for my wrist. I can't tell.

At the gym this morning, a friend asked about my running. I gave him the spiel.

"Why don't you just take 6 months off?"

"I'm doing what my doctor has cleared me to do."

"Yeah, but are you listening to your body?"

In all honesty, my body told me I wasn't injured after putting my foot in a hole, so I trust an MRI and a couple of doctors more than I trust what my body is telling me. If my body tells me something hurts and my doctor says that's normal, then why would I stop doing what I love? Should I just sit on the couch for a few months and see how that goes?

I told the podiatrist that the back of my ankle hurts sometimes when I kick.

"That may take awhile to go away" she said. Alright, then this is ok.

I stood on the table while my therapist manipulated my ankle bone to sit further back. The pain was horrific.

"What hurts?" she asked, in an impatient tone.

"My ankle bone! Where your thumb is."

"Oh, that's okay then." she said and continued pushing.

Later, she assessed her tape job's ability to hold my ankle bone back and commented on my "drama" I unleashed while she was messing with it.

"Well you were dislodging my bone!" I argued.

"I was mobilizing your joint." She corrected me.

"A joint is made up of bones" I said as I looked at her in the mirror while balancing on my left foot.

She was quiet.

"Alright, I'll give you that."

My therapist is brutal, but she got me healed for Boston. So I take her abuse.

I digress. The point is, some pain is normal. I just don't always know what is. My friend put even more doubt in my head, and a whole lot of anger. I'm tired of people telling me to stop. Three doctors later, not one has suggested I stop running (ok, I didn't run for an entire month during the time they were trying to figure out what was wrong). I have good doctors.

I left the gym in a foul mood and thought about riding up Hick's Road. I have come to the conclusion that Hick's Road is not my demon, but I certainly meet all of them on the way up. I mulled it over in my head. There would definitely be standing on the pedals, Hick's is too steep not to. I knew my anger would be replaced by fear the closer I got to the base of the mountain.

I ate a banana and a piece of bread with peanut butter, adjusted my rear brakes, and headed out the door. Even on flat ground I was running out of gears. Is my tire flat? What's happening?

Maybe you should just go home and lay on the floor. 

I thought about the last time Mike found me on the floor.

"Uh oh" I heard him say as he entered the room. He knows what it means if I'm laying on the floor. The floor is the last resort. The floor is where I go when I have exhausted all of my coping mechanisms. I lay on the floor where there is no further down to go, and I take a break. I let tears run down my cheeks. I let the anger and the frustrations and the fears come and go in my mind. I am not allowed to get up until my time down there is up. I usually give myself a time limit. "Time out" if you will.

I pushed away on my pedals and fought back tears. I would lose myself in the breeze and the ride, then my mind would come back to everything that was bothering me and I'd get all upset again. You're going to stay out here until you change your attitude. I dropped my head. Hick's Road it is.

I came up on a 12 year old riding a fixed gear on his way to school. The light turned green. He took off with apparent ease, even with his backpack on. You're getting your ass kicked by a 12 year old on a fixie. I caught him though...and passed him.

8 miles later, I turned right on Hick's Road. Trees on either side of the narrow two lane road covered the path with shade. A small incline to get up and over a bridge nearly bowled me over. Pull over, you're not ready for this. Maybe your tire is flat.

I pulled onto a side road and pushed down on the saddle. The back tire gave a little. I wasn't sure. I looked at my Garmin. 8.60 miles. Just go home, you're not up for this today. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. Yes, my legs were tired from the gym, but I had squatted more today than I have in months. My legs are strong. I pedaled home.

As I pulled into the driveway, I tested the back tire again. It's not soft, your legs are. 

That's probably true, I thought as I hoisted the bike up onto my shoulder and climbed the stairs. I set it down on the floor inside and leaned it against the wall. I took off my gear and glanced over my bike. Hmmm.

I inspected the back brake pads. They were sitting snug against the rim.

Well that is not helpful. I rode 16 miles with my rear brakes applied. I sighed and started in on all of my other responsibilities. I took a hot bath and ate a hamburger. I called the insurance company and had a 30 minute discussion on why one bill wasn't paid, one was, and are orthotics covered? Meanwhile, Shelly texted me: Read your email. I got dressed while the insurance lady went on about coverage. I got off the phone with her, jumped in the car and drove to school. I parked and checked my email. Admin stuff for the fire lab.

There's an oral quiz on Friday in Japanese. I still haven't written tomorrow's lecture. Can I get all this paperwork done in time for the lab members to get fireline qualified? I'll talk to the physical therapist on Friday to get her take on any soreness I have in my ankle. What is she going to say? Next week is finals week. I need to pay bills. I need to get work done for my other job. There's another email from a student. Forget my thesis. What am I making for dinner tonight? Hold your shit together!

Floor. Floor later, I thought as I made my way to class.

You aren't even going to make it to the floor.

I texted my advisor while walking. I texted Shelly. Class started. Class ended. Texted my advisor back, texted Shelly back, drove home and sent out a couple emails.

Floor. 20 minutes of staring at the ceiling. The floor is for when breathing is not enough. I picture the conversation with my therapist and I cry. I will probably cry when I talk to her. I picture Mike's kind reaction when I tell him it was another floor day, and I cry again. I imagine swimming in the ocean, during a triathlon. Salt and sun, and a little adrenaline. I wonder about the half Ironman in September. I think about the marathon I missed last weekend, that I had a chance of placing in the top three. I think about tomorrow's lecture, how I can't wait for this semester to be over. I glance up at the door where my motivational collage is taped. I made it when I tore my hamstring 2 months before the Boston Marathon. "You are a force to be reckoned with." I put my head back down and stared at the ceiling again. I should make one of those for my upcoming triathlon.

Before or after you write your lecture?

Yeesh.