And off we would go across the field, grasping, reaching to touch the chain link fence on the other side. Twelve year old bodies move with rhythm and motion to the beat only they can hear in the recesses of their mind.
My mantra, "Beat the boys, Lindsey. Beat the boys."
Very fast actually.
I could beat all but one, okay maybe two, boys in class.
I was proud of that.
I only raced to win.
Or at least to place high, in the winner's circle.
This striving became my life.
My very own song played in steady beats.
Run faster.
Strive more.
Reach higher.
Go bigger.
Until the twelve year old girl inside of me cried out....
There is nothing left to give.
You spent it all.
But the race is not over, the voice inside rails.
PUSH.
PUSH.
But I cannot.
I have nothing left.
Until I yield to His mantra, His dance, His rhythm, His song.
And I am learning...
...this is a one woman race. {thank you, Holley Gerth}
I don't really have to "beat" anybody.
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