Barbara Powell: Writer, Runner and Coach

Monday, but
put away the duties
let the work wait
simmer
soak
marinate
in the juiciness
of Now.

Eating everything at the State Fair is my fave summertime activity. We went twice this year and got to soak up all the music, munchies, and moo cows.

If you want a parking hack, get a motorcycle because it makes finding a spot a breeze!

a little life update:

The world is a mess but the magic keeps me interested. I’m asking questions to the stars as I walk my dog around the block, and they whisper back in ancient twinkles of wisdom. My hands are wet as I pull sourdough into shape and then, later on, they dry out as chemicals from wood stain creeps beneath my fingernails. The sun rises with me and my coffee as I shuffle oracle cards and pray to an entity I’m learning to speak to. The boys pile into bed alongside and atop me— the dog, the cat, and the boyfriend— and we turn the projector on to watch movies in the dark cozy bedroom.

I’ve learned to run again— my body moves more effortlessly and the creaks have lessened. I join a few gym classes each week to throw weights around and share fist bumps and slide from the treadmill to the rower to the ski erg. There are phone calls to sisters and bingo nights with my beloved and stories swapped with friends as we check in on each other through the storms — and keep much of the magic alive.

It’s a simple life but it’s rich and full and steady right here.

(Some of) Life lately.

45 days ago, I dropped the label “runner” and picked up the goodness of “multifaceted” instead. I’ve wrapped my arms around people I love most and can feel myself held to this planet more completely. Paces and mileage and training blocks and COROS data and whoop insights and social media proof of purpose no longer feel like ingredients I wanna stir into my life soup. Fill me up with living big and trying new things and messing up and being flexible — and I might just might become a better version of myself on the way to nowhere. I might just might run farther than I’ve ever gone before because I don’t grip onto that part of my identity so tightly.

What a worthwhile experiment 💛

And so began my journey to the Leadville 100 Trail Run ⚡️

I’ve unlocked a new-to-me human experience. Is there a word for it? Or are there only many words, like the ones I am about to write, that just about grasps the concept? Let’s see where my explanations and processing get me.

Two weeks ago, I was out on the trails, running, like I do. Halfway into a 50K, I pulled over and had the aid station doc look at my hurting foot. He encouraged me to stop. I went to TRIA urgent care the following day, got X-rayed, and was told it was a likely stress reaction (the final step before a stress fracture). I got booted up. I wore the boot for about 10 days as I focused on, well, everything BUT my running: coaching, writing, my dog, my person — and creative outlets.

One of those outlets included furniture refurbishing.

It was something I had picked up about a month ago after years of thinking, ‘I’d really like to do that.’ It started with a bookshelf I got for free from an older couple’s driveway in Golden Valley. “The doors kept getting stuck, so we took ‘em off years ago,” the woman told me as I inspected the shelving and grooves. “My husband was going to take a hammer to the whole thing, but I told him someone would want it for nothin’.” I hoisted the piece into my Jeep, got it into my dusty old garage, and got to work. I did a lot wrong — meaning, I learned a lot. Sanded. Stained. Given black and silver accents. Sealed with shellac. Chris posted it on Facebook Marketplace. And to my dismay, someone bought it for $100.

The satisfaction pressed up and oozed out of every inch of me. I was delighted. I could take old wood that someone wanted to throw out, give it good care, and set it back out into the world for a new life. It was Creative CPR. And people would pay for it! I was hooked.

Read on: https://open.substack.com/pub/barbarapowellauthor/p/creative-cpr?r=i7rgp&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Something amazing is afoot. And it took a second injury in six months to jolt me awake to something beautiful.

I think back to early-thirty-some-odd me and I wish I could breathe into her belly the wisdom I have now. (And then, as soon as I type that, I laugh, because I am sure fifty some odd me will be looking back at this late-thirty me and have a whole ‘nother swirl of insight to share.) Growing pains, every inch of wisdom gained, and I’m creaking, squeaking as I expand a bit further out from where I once was.

I ditched a few things this week: the structure of a training plan and the rhythm of a coach and the hard-pressed lines of do this thing at this time so there is room for rest and maybe a little fun if we get ‘round to it.
Mainly I ditched my running watch, the tool that keeps the pace and time and alerts me of mishaps and keeps me in line. The band ‘round my wrist that tracks the hours that I sleep and tells me which were deep and which I dreamt and if I was well rested or not. The journal lines once spent on working through the data, now lost lines of wondering, the mathematical equations of not enough or enough-ness.

The sun has done her job and gripped the earth of our northern hemisphere, slicing rays that have drenched my wrist’s skin, covering shade by shade the white outline proof that a watch once lived there full time. The same skin tone now reaches from fingertip to elbow and you’d never know I was a runner with a tan line that gave me away.

There’s freedom here. I didn’t quite know how caged I was, the facade of variety in choosing any watch face I’d like — digital or traditional, white on black or reversed, purple tones, gold inflection, the choice of swirls and unique backgrounds — all saying the same, all reading the time, all telling me to stay put or keep moving or else risk being left behind. But now, the watch is sitting in a drawer, in the closet, in my office — Russian nesting dolls tucked one into the other — out of sight, out of mind, out of the clasp ‘round my life. I smirk, knowing that freedom is a mindset and I keep arriving, a lesson at a time, to a grand emerging of my truest self.

Read on in my Substack in bio 🔗

Wowa weewa.

Something amazing is afoot. And it took a second injury in six months to jolt me awake to something beautiful.

I think back to early-thirty-some-odd me and I wish I could breathe into her belly the wisdom I have now. (And then, as soon as I type that, I laugh, because I am sure fifty some odd me will be looking back at this late-thirty me and have a whole ‘nother swirl of insight to share.) Growing pains, every inch of wisdom gained, and I’m creaking, squeaking as I expand a bit further out from where I once was.

I ditched a few things this week: the structure of a training plan and the rhythm of a coach and the hard-pressed lines of do this thing at this time so there is room for rest and maybe a little fun if we get ‘round to it.

Mainly I ditched my running watch, the tool that keeps the pace and time and alerts me of mishaps and keeps me in line. The band ‘round my wrist that tracks the hours that I sleep and tells me which were deep and which I dreamt and if I was well rested or not. The journal lines once spent on working through the data, now lost lines of wondering, the mathematical equations of not enough or enough-ness.

The sun has done her job and gripped the earth of our northern hemisphere, slicing rays that have drenched my wrist’s skin, covering shade by shade the white outline proof that a watch once lived there full time. The same skin tone now reaches from fingertip to elbow and you’d never know I was a runner with a tan line that gave me away.

There’s freedom here. I didn’t quite know how caged I was, the facade of variety in choosing any watch face I’d like — digital or traditional, white on black or reversed, purple tones, gold inflection, the choice of swirls and unique backgrounds — all saying the same, all reading the time, all telling me to stay put or keep moving or else risk being left behind. But now, the watch is sitting in a drawer, in the closet, in my office — Russian nesting dolls tucked one into the other — out of sight, out of mind, out of the clasp ‘round my life. I smirk, knowing that freedom is a mindset and I keep arriving, a lesson at a time, to a grand emerging of my truest self.

(I know I am being both poetic and dramatic — something I’m sure my brother would lovingly scold me about— but I don’t care. It helps me as I make good sense of where I’m at in this world, what I am learning in this body, how I’m being on this timeline.)

I don’t know when I’ll run again.

(Read on!)

I Drop into the Pleasure of My Life Ditched the watch, ditched the running -- gained the extraordinary.

A story in 3 photos 🏃🏼‍♀️✨🐍

Photo 1: Happily posing in my trail costume before my Afton 50k run this weekend. Bliss state. No watch. Snacks in my pack. Happy to be alive and eager to just move through the trails with music in my ears alongside other wild-hearted humans. I dropped at 25k due to an increasing tenderness in my left foot that’s been on/off since the Blacks Grove Backyard. The doc at the aid station handed me an ice pop and, pressing on my foot, said: this might be a stress fracture.

Photo 2: The result of a trip to TRIA urgent care: a boot. My body pressing back. The firm, cant-ignore “No” that she speaks: a stress reaction (likely not a fracture). The X-ray tech said, you’ll be back pounding pavement in no time. The Doc said, your bones are always shedding, reshaping, growing and these ones need less pressure on them. No running, no jumping. I exhaled the air I was holding in as I clutched paperwork and clumsily walked out the cool building into summer heat. There was an ease, somehow. A lightness. I turned an ear toward my belly and my heart, the places in me that guide well. I recognize the pulse: This doesn’t call for concern. It doesn’t upend who I am at my core. It does slow me down and shifts me. It rearranges my focus. I start my car and drive into a next, unnamed chapter. I’m a snake, shedding a skin, the same and yet different — letting go of something once a part of me.

Photo 3: The Pivot Year. I’ve been reading a passage most mornings and this one arrived the day I got my costly boot. I underlined the wisdom: “Maybe there really is a purpose to what’s happening; and maybe you’ll see it all clearly soon.” It affirms the wisdom in my belly and heart. Something bigger is at play and I’m on the ride, ready to see what opens up for me in the days ahead. I journal, my old dog pressing his breathing rib cage against my leg

On a practical note, the boot is on for 3ish weeks. I’ve had to say No to a run modeling opportunity that lands in there (healing over ego 🤷‍♀️) — But it’s timely as I reassess what I want to create with my time, love, and energy.

How I run and perform is changing. For the better.

💛😘