Secondhand Rediscovery.

Logging some beautiful sunrise miles up to Redwood Peak.                                                       (Photo: J.Torralba)

“One of my favorite feelings is something I call ‘secondhand rediscovery.’ It’s that feeling you get when you show someone the places you love, but for them it’s the first time. You may have seen the place a million times, yet with them, you see it through their eyes, and discover it for yourself all over again...you almost discover it better, because you see it again with the heart knowledge that the place is already beloved. And in the sparking eyes of a friend, you love both the astonishment of something new and the intimacy of something known, all at once.”

— Jedidiah Jenkins

Sunrise at Redwood Peak.

At one time, I was that friend, being shown a sacred spot for the first time, marveling in the beauty and electricity of such a unique experience in nature. I love how that moment is forever etched in my heart and memory, just like how those initials carved in the large stones of Redwood Peak will remain there for years to come, as hikers and runners and lovers and loners sit upon those same rocks.

I love the outdoors because places which become common to you can become magical all over again with secondhand rediscovery. It is both a unique miracle and gift to be able to see things again for the first time, with expert eyes.

Break Away.

“I am losing precious days. I am degenerating into a machine for making money. I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men. I must break away and get out into the mountains to learn the news.”

— John Muir

Today's sunrise- Coastal Trail, Marin Headlands

I am always astonished that the beauty of a sunrise feels new every single time. I definitely needed to break away from the news this week, to head into nature where there is no phone reception. No racist-infused Facebook posts. No text messages. No emails. 

Just dirt trails, coyotes, bunnies, snakes, and miles of ocean. Although I love to solo-trek most of the time, I know that remote trails like these are not only safer with a running partner, but they're also enjoyed exponentially more with someone who shares your joy and love for the outdoors.  Not sure where to start? Here's my simple criteria...

How to choose a running partner:

"Should we try this new trail? I'm not exactly sure where it leads to."

"Should we start at sunrise?"

"Should we grab coffee after this?"

If they always answer yes, choose them.

I'm lucky I found mine. Enjoying the descent back down after climbing up from Muir Beach...

Deeper Still.

After today's swim, my friend John inquired, "Why do you like the deep end?" He had witnessed me gradually shift lanes from the shallower side of the pool until I was finally settled in the deepest lane possible. 

I thought about it for awhile. I don't like my feet touching the bottom of the pool- something about being so close to the center black line makes me feel claustrophobic. I've spent half of my life in the shallow end (literally and metaphorically-speaking), that now I crave deeper things. Things that really matter. I cringe at how much time I've wasted having shallow conversations, reading shallow Facebook updates, maintaining superficial and shallow friendships. So much of life is already lacking depth. My pool lane should not be one of them.

 The quote that first came to mind was from Henry David Thoreau- "I love a wide margin to my life." I realized, like Thoreau, that space and silence are essential for contemplation, for evaluation, for self-actualization. The deep water feels more vast. I love how I can flutter kick and dolphin dive and my feet never reach the bottom of the pool. 

I love all things deep-

Deep conversations.

Deep breaths.

Deep questions.

I love the mystery and the adventure and the truth that has yet to be explored. And just when you think you've arrived, you realize there is still more to discover. Here's to swimming in the vastness and depth of the human experience, one stroke at a time. Here's to a lifetime where our feet never ever touch the bottom.

Lessons from Molly

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

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

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

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

— Susan Sontag

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

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

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

Puppy Love.

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

— Anne Lammott

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

Team Betty 2016

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

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

Writing at the Edge

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

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

Sunrise from Chimney Rock trail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hungry for exploration and adventure.

With our pens and our hearts as our paddles.

Learning to Stay.

This morning's sunrise miles...

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

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

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

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

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

Get it together, Julianne.

And another voice-

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

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

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

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

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

— Victor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I knew it would be ok.

And it was.

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

And above all-

May you feel safe.

May you feel connected.

May you feel loved.

See the Light.

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

— Dr. Wayne Dyer

Sunset runs... #illuminatelove #grateful

Growing Back.

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

— Beau Taplin

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

Vegan Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Muffins.

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

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

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

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

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

VEGAN PUMPKIN CHOCOLATE CHIP MUFFINS

INGREDIENTS:

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

DIRECTIONS:

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

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