Reaction on the Boston Marathon

There are supposed to be fireworks at the end of races like The Boston Marathon--not deadly explosions.

As my coworker read the breaking news to a group of us in the office, I put my head down and continued to write the treatment that I was working on. It wasn't that I didn't want to be informed--I wasn't ready to be sad.

Sadness, after tragedy, is often addictive. After Colorado; Newtown; Sandy;  and other large events that have resulted in death, I often find myself refreshing the Twitter stream relentlessly, clicking from news organization to news organization, and texting friends about their thoughts. All I want to do is turn away--but I can't. So when I finally tuned into what was going on in Boston, an hour after it occurred, my obsession with the story quickly manifested. I wanted answers. I wanted to know who, what, when, where, why, HOW. I wanted to know everything.

And rather than feel sadness, I suddenly found myself feeling angry. This wasn't an attack on our country, no it couldn't be. There are over 90 other countries represented in a race like The Boston Marathon. This was senseless--terrifying--and reckless.

As someone who has run a lot of races, my anger too stemmed from the fact that this could have been any race in any city.

On Sunday morning, I ran my first race in nearly 9 months on the JFK runway--a 5k. I even got a few friends to come run it with me--one who hadn't ran a race before. As we approached the 5k, I told her how excited I was that it was her first--that the community feeling of running a 5k, or any race, is what keeps me coming back.  People are supportive--People feel a sense of community.

And what I love most about running in races is that it's not a judgmental sport. People of all ages run--people of all run levels run--and people from all over the world run--without being judged. The spectators stand by--cheering, relentless--holding signs that make you laugh as you pass by, giving you high fives, motivating you until you cross the finish line. And unless it's the Olympics or unless you're a top runner battling it out for the top time, then no one is cheering against you either. It may not be a team sport but it brings on a team of people who want to see success. It brings people together--if even for a short bit of time. That's the fun of any sporting event--the community that is drawn in. To see that disrupted, to see our spectators hurt--our runners--our fellow Americans--and even those who travel from near and far to take part in a race that has such magnitude as the Boston Marathon gives me chills and is beyond disheartening.

As more and more information is released, my heart begins to sink more. As I see the photos of the carnage, I am reminded of photos I've seen of battle scenes.  People are without legs--three lives have been lost--and hundreds are battling what could be life threatening injuries in multiple hospitals across the city of Boston.

An 8 year old boy lost his life by simply watching a race--a race that perhaps he one day wanted to participate in, or that his family may have been participating in yesterday.


As I try to suppress my anger, I think of what I can do--what we can do in order to support Boston at a time like this.

The answer is to continue loving. To continue loving with all our hearts--showing our neighbor who may not always seem to love us back--so much love that they can't avoid showing love too.

There is too much good in this world to let the bad rot it out.

To all those who took the start line yesterday--and who stood by, relentlessly cheering them on to the finish, my heart--my thoughts--and my prayers are with you.

In the next few weeks, I will be looking toward a marathon to run in either October or November. I recently told a friend that I would never think of doing a marathon--that it wasn't in my cards. But it is in my cards, because I have the means to do it. There are people who lost the ability to run another marathon--or even their first after the explosives went off yesterday--so I want to run in memory of / out of respect for them them. If anyone has any suggestions or who would like to join me, please reach out. Even if it means walking all 26 miles. This race is the answer to the anger--to the hate--to the sadness. This race is for them.

Libs on the Reel

A 20 for your thoughts?

I talk a lot. I am not sure if I always say a lot. But I surely do talk a lot. I talk about the world spinning round. I talk about the leaves falling off the trees. I talk about music to my ears. I talk about how people inspire me—how I inspire them. I talk about calories. I talk about beliefs. I talk about the future—the past—and the present. I talk about sports. I talk about clothes and money…I talk about material things, and I talk about wishes and wants and dreams.

I talk to family. I talk to friends. I talk to my video camera. I talk to myself.

And when a stranger offers me the candy of a conversation about something other than boys and problems in life…I take the candy, and I talk to a stranger—even if my parents once told me never to stop and talk to strangers. Because let’s be honest, if we never stopped and talked to strangers, would we have any friends?

Sitting in front of what I refer to as the Cloverfield Monster of Rome, The Pantheon, which sits tightly as the meat between two apartment buildings, I contemplate which was built first—the apartment buildings or the Pantheon—and how they got the columns there if it was built second. I try and engineer the building of the Pantheon in my head. ‘Well I know how they got the columns…’ My thoughts are interrupted by a middle-aged man dressed down who has just sat next to me. “Is there mass?” He asks me.

Reaching to button my jacket pockets—in case I have placed valuables within, I look at him and say “Non lo so” (I don’t know)

“Oh parli Italiano” (You speak Italian!)

“Un po,” I say. "English is my native language."

He begins speaking to me in English—very good English at that. “What do you do in Rome?”

Now clutching my backpack, half expecting him to have a gypsy attempt to rob me of all my belongings (my trust is still low since having my things stolen just over two months ago), “I teach English…but not for long. I return to the states in a month and go on vacation this coming week.”

“How much do you charge.”

I tell him that I charge 25 Euro for a planned lesson.

“And for conversation?”

“20 Euro.”

“Can I pay you 20 Euro now to talk to me in English for a half hour. It’s not often that I get to speak to a lovely lady in English for a half hour and I need it for my work.”

Still clutching my backpack, and still nervous, I look around to grasp my surroundings.

“What, you don’t want an easy twenty euro?” The man says to me.

‘Hold on,’ I think to myself. ‘Breathe. Take one more look around. Check your pockets one more time. You are in a tourist area. Stay weary.’ I continue my thoughts in my head ‘Stop being so serious. Relax. Breathe. 20 dollars to talk…..to talk.’

“Okay,” I say. “but one moment.” I quickly call my friend to tell her that I will be a half hour later for our cappuccino date.

And then I say, “But twenty is too much…” “No, twenty is not much, he says.” And then we talk—and talk—and talk—and talk. And we laugh, and we laugh more…and we discuss Michael Jackson and David Hasselhoff, and how Johnny Depp is for the young crowd—not his. And how George Clooney is looked down upon in Italy, but for Clint Eastwood—two thumbs up. And we frown upon Berlusconi and we talk about how beautiful Rome is and where else to visit in Italy—and we smile, and we enjoy one another’s company.

Not before long our half hour is up, and he initiates the end of the conversation by thanking me for my time and wishing that we could meet again. Genuinely saddened that I won’t be around Rome any longer, he says that he hopes to meet with me one day again so that he can again pay me to talk.

I feel bad taking his money, but he insists curling it between my fingers. A smile on his face, he says how much our conversation has meant to him, how nice it was to just sit and talk. I’d take that smile for my thoughts over the twenty, and I try to give it back to him—but when an Italian insists, you don’t argue (really—they get mad). And as he trots off with a giant smile on his face. I begin to wonder what his story is—what his family is like—if he still talks to them—if he is hoping to have his own family one day—if he is lonely—and if he was just looking for a friend…if I was a girl who was just a stranger---or if I was that stranger who could become that friend.

"These tears are just a disguise for happiness"

His story lingers in my mind, his tears the dessert to our meal that had just ended. His words echo. His story is strong…his tears are stronger—they are for joy, not sadness. His tears are for the past, the future, and the present. And just a week ago he was a stranger to me, to all of us here in Italy. Just a week ago, I would have never known him, or this story, the one of the love he had for his grandfather, the one of the last record he played by his grandfather’s bedside, the one of strength and what it truly means.

Strength in tears.

As I sat and watched my new friend shed tears about the past, over a final glass of wine with six of us sitting at the table, I thought to myself, how strong of a person to let the tears just roll out, to just let us all the way in, to let us learn a bit more about him and his past—to let us know him.

I often cry, but most times the tears are hidden in embarrassment, because they tend to be tears for nothing, sadness, or emptiness. But I realized recently how much I actually enjoy crying, letting it all just flow out, letting the droplets just drip down my cheek.

My friend Hannah has pointed out the importance of gaping wallows in the past, and it is in this moment, at dinner, that I see the gaping wallow in progress. Though his stream of tears doesn’t fill the restaurant like a bathtub, it does offer a release, an escape. It is in these moments that I realize the importance of our tears and the importance of sharing those tears with or without stories. It is in this moment I realize the importance of letting people in—the importance of letting ourselves out.