Sometimes, while you're
busy trying to do things you like, like writing on your blog, life
pulls gently on your sleeve to get your attention. Other times, it
rips your arm right off.
Three months ago, we
bought a house. Oh, I have fond memories of the time before that,
when I could go for a whole minute without having something to do.
Buying an old house and
having to renovate it by yourself takes time, and effort, and an
emotional investment unlike anything I've experienced before. Our
decisions matter, because this is our home now and the decisions we
make – which colours we pick for our walls, which furniture we
choose for the extra room we suddenly have, which trees, bushes and
flowers will reshape our flat, uninspired garden – reflect who we are.
And because we're not millionaires who can throw money at problems
until someone else fixes them, we're stuck with the mistakes that we
make, at least for a while.
Life has been trying to rip
my arm off to get my attention to the house, while I've been looking
for my running shoes, my crochet hook, my book. I paid attention and
worked 12-13 hour days until I was too tired to think, to exercise,
to function. I lost touch with friends – but thankfully, the good
ones always stick around no matter how much of a shitty friend you've
been. The other ones? They were probably not your friend to begin with.
Some doors were closed forever.
All this is small
potatoes, of course, in the grand scheme of things. It's a stressful
period in our lives that will soon fade into a hopefully less
stressful period, when we actually have time to reap what we sow.
Because a home does not actually become a home, no matter how amazing
the furniture and the wall colour and the garden, if you don't
actually live and laugh in it. If you don't bake those cookies so the
walls and floors and ceilings become saturated with the smell of
them. If you don't accidentally make a dent in the upholstery while
you're carrying a chair to the dining room so your dinner guests will
have something to sit on. If you don't have time to go through the
whole house, room by room, and discover all its hidden flaws and
treasures.
So I wash the paint off
my arms for the umpteenth time. Try to find some much needed balance
between work and play. I picked up my crochet
hook again last night for the first time in three months. My fingers
remembered the drill, even if the pattern to the particular piece I
was working on was hiding in a much more obscure part of my brain and
I had to coax it into materialising.
My book was in a box
with a pile of other books, some of them new and exciting, some of them old and
beloved. I decided to make time for at least a couple of pages every
day.
Running then? After a
couple of months where little to no training took place, I stood on
the starting line for this year's Rovön 6H with considerable
apprehension. I had made up my mind to shoot for 33 km, no more. I
hadn't put in the miles for more. But then, as I ran with some
friends from AIK and the hours just passed, I found myself aching for
those longer distances. I was tired but I didn't want to stop. I was
still hungry for ultras when I finally did, after 44 km. It was a
relief to get my mojo back after months of routine, unexciting runs.
I started planning my next adventure within minutes. I now have two
concrete plans, and that's just in July.
Summer is going to be
intensive, with lots of work that still needs to be done on the
house. But at least life isn't pulling on my arm quite so hard this
time. And with all my running-related plans? I'll be playing as hard
as I'll be working.