Maggie My Muse

Let me tell you about Maggie - Maggie my muse.   

Romancing Maggie in the Garden

 She's a fickle sort of gal, and feels that giving her a name would hinder her artistic flow - thus making it hard to pin down the appropriate one, Maggie.  

Maggie has a wind blown style about her, the one that flows and billows in the wind creating wispy texture about.  She survives on romance and dreamy air - if you want her to swoon, sip wine in the garden at dusk.  The twilight of dusk is her magical time, fairy friends find time.


Maggie is lost in time and matters of cordial comfort.  She'll bestow her creations when they are ready - waking you as the story unfolds and propelling your forward all night long.  She'll exhaust your physical platform, pushing you past your known.   She flows through time like the eagles soar above, with astounding ease and grace.  


She lusts for loads of naps, rejuvenating her spirit in order to tap her trundle of inspiration.  


She vehemently hates stress, to-do-lists, alarm clocks, should haves, and could haves -  foreign to her soul.  Zen is a must, if you want her stay.   

Maggie a seat for you

Maggie my muse keeps me craving her company.

Jane? Who? Me? Runner?

So today's form of athletic 'inspiration' came from Active.com's facebook page: "You must begin to think of yourself as ... the person you want to be." - David Viscott.

I read this as on a December day that feels more like March.  Yet, unlike March, there's no wind to bring down the temp.  The sun is hidden behind a cooling veil of clouds, which helps keep the temperature a perfect running 49 degrees.  Mother Nature has lined up everything for the perfect running day. 

I walked outside to get the mail, mentally tallying everything that will make today the best day back to running (after some healing time for a tendon flair).  While I walk out to the mailbox, my zealous mind has already created the perfect run: I've already ran 6 miles along a tree lined single track trail.  My dogs following.  I could feel their fur rub against my calf, their tongues lopping to the side, their eyes focused ahead anticipating the next turn of the trail.  It was perfect!  As I walk back from the mailbox, I had convinced myself that this mental trail run surely did happen.  I was so close, close to the elusive "Runner's High". 

Oh, that Runner's High is magnificent! I turn into Super Woman.  I become everything my mind says I am.  I'm invincible, I can leap over buildings (or logs) in a single bound, I run faster then Paula Radcliffe, (a 2:15 marathoner).  No mountain can make me huff as I run up it.   The runner's high is like the musician Muse; elusive, coming and going, just out of reach, sometimes allowing me to catch it - just for a moment - never staying long enough. 

I leap up the front steps, still grasping for the coat tails of Jane (that's what I'll call her - Jane, my Runner's High).  When suddenly I feel the churning reminder of an ankle not yet ready for running.  I stop at the top of the stairs (which is only 3 steps), and watch Jane - as she keeps running, taunting me, haunting me until the day I can catch her.

So here I sit, waiting for Pilate's to start, mourning the loss of my perfect December run and my elusive Jane.  Wondering if this still makes me a runner?    

My ankle had been feeling great, or so I thought...