How long O Lord will You forget me
How long O Lord will You look the other way
How long O Lord must I wrestle with my thoughts
And every day have such sorrow in my heart

Look on me and answer, O God my Father
Bring light to my darkness before they see me fall

But I trust in Your unfailing love
Yes my heart will rejoice
Still I sing of Your unfailing love
You have been good, You will be good to me

If I had a lofthouse cookie with pink frosting every time I heard those words....well maybe if I was still running like I did then.
But those were my favorite words, and that was the greatest place to be, at the starting line, on the mark. every fiber of my being fully actively engaged, all the strength with all my might, keeping me behind that line until it was time. Every thing mattered. Each breath, That thought, Everything was still, the world was silent, in anticipation. waiting for the moment of truly pure exhiliration-but that freedom comes and the race is on, and that moment is no more. Everything changes and you win some, lose some and skin your elbows and knees much more often than the former. Back to the training room, preparing, examining, building it back up, tearing it down, and remembering. Remembering who you are when you are there & remembering to get back to the mark, to that holding place, because that is truly where it gets put down, left behind and released-because from there... you can not take it with you.

The New Story of Your Life
Say you finally invented a new story of your life. It is not the story of your defeat or of your impotence and powerlessness before the large forces of wind and accident. It is not the sad story of your mother's death or of your abandoned childhood. It is not, even, a story that will win you the deep initial sympathies of the benevolent gods or the care of the generous, but it is a story that requires of you a large thrust into the difficult life, a sense of plenitude entirely your own. Whatever the story is, it goes as it goes, and there are variations in it, gardens that need to be planted, skills sown, the long hard labors of prose and enduring love. Deep down in some long-encumbered self, it is the story you have been writing all of your life, where no Calypso holds you against your own willfulness, where you can rise from the bleak island of your old story and tread your way home.
- Michael Blumenthal