An oldie but a goodie from June 2011. And a lesson, btw, I’m still working on. 

I have a gift for wishing my life away. When I was in middle school, I couldn’t wait for high school. High school sucked, but college would be much better. College was far from what I expected, but real life? That was going to be awesome. My single life in NYC was not exactly “Sex and the City,” but once I met the guy who would be my husband, my life would be complete. The wedding was sublime, but I’ve always wanted kids…and so on and so on.

Same strategy applies to my daily life. I’m at the pool throwing this plastic diving toy for Ben for the 78th time (“No, mom, not that far, but farther than you threw it last time!”), but what am I going to write about on the blog tonight? I’m finishing a story about summer training right now, but my mind is fast forwarding to the invoices I have to send. I’m sweeping–believe it or not–and as I fill the dustpan, I am reminding myself not to forget to switch the wet clothes to the dryer.

At the risk of sounding mortal, my life could be more than halfway over right now. I’ve cleared the hurdles I’ve always wanted to—marriage, kids, writing career, home owner—and there aren’t many more major ones I can see in the next decade, which I’m guessing is going to look a lot like life does for me today. (I realize by typing that sentence, I’m setting myself up for some kind of upheaval.) The years ahead will be filled with doing my best to balance mothering with work; to balance being a wife with being a daughter; to balance my self-interests with those of my family; to balance a sense of purpose with a sense of humor.

Which is to say, I know this drill. What I don’t know is how to change my perspective. To be one of those women who can enjoy an afternoon picnic and not worry about the beds that need to be made, the proposal that needs to be done, the lawn that desperately needs mowing, the e-mails that haven’t been sent. To be able to engage in a conversation with my husband for a full 10 minutes, and not think about unloading the dishwasher or squeezing in a couple hours of work before bed. To color with my kids instead of making a grocery or to-do list as they Crayola away.

I gotta start somewhere though, and running seems like a natural fit. When we ran the Ogden half-marathon, I reminded myself a couple times, “I am here now.” By saying that, I was telling myself that I am not worrying about the next 8 or 5 or 3 miles. I am living in every step I am taking. Right now.

That attitude worked really well for me when I was feeling good and the course was downhill. But when the going got tough, I reverted to old habits and started wishing the race away. As any yogi can tell you, it’s really freakin’ hard to stay present when every fiber of my being wants to quit. But that staying present provides an opportunity to dig in and go deeper, to feel sensations and gratitude that don’t happen when I’m only skimming the surface, always casting forward.

Bottom rung for me, thanks.

Fortunately, I grabbed enough joy from the good, present miles to realize I want–and need–more of being here now.

So I’m practicing. Like anything new, it feels awkward and uncomfortable and doesn’t work as efficiently as I’d like. I mentally tell myself to stay in the moment when I try to pick up the pace or when my back starts to ache. (And it’s amazing how, when I do notice an ache, my present, attentive self tries to figure out how to soothe it, instead of just grinning and bearing it.) When I start calculating how many more miles I have left, I mentally check myself. When I doesn’t work, I say out loud, “I am here now. Stay here.”

Same with life: Tonight, I was at my dad’s birthday celebration, and I had a post, with a still TBD topic, breathing hard on my neck. “I am here now,” I told myself quietly at the table, and celebrated the moment with as much presence as I could muster.

And I came home, still didn’t freak. I read a reptile book to Ben, and then talked at length with him about how a reticulated python can be 33 feet long. I tucked Amelia’s hair behind her ear repeatedly as I said goodnight and we downloaded her day.

And here I am, happily, now.