I love running but I’ve never been great at the fast stuff. When I was in high school, I was unable to earn a spot on the track team, but our coach handed me the 1,500m, the race that nobody wanted to do; I finished last. At university, a friend tried to persuade me again and again to run the cross-country with her, but memories of being the slowest on the track troubled me.

I was happy to run on the roads at my speed. If I wanted to do a speedier workout, I just ran faster. And I continued to run and train like that for years until I started to run with Toronto Olympic Club. It wasn’t long before speed, interval (间歇) training, and broken miles all became a part of my weekly vocabulary. But I was still slower than everybody else. Speedwork scared me.

Last week, Coach sent me my first workout of this year. I had weeks to mentally prepare for this week, but I was still far from prepared. How much would I be able to push myself? I worried about what the numbers on my watch would show. How slow am I?

On Tuesday night, I parked my emotions and headed to the track. On Friday afternoon, I headed out the door for my second workout of the week, pushing myself up hills and into the wind for some quick intervals. I finished two workouts in Week 1. And I surprised myself; I wasn’t as slow as I had expected.

When you do something that scares you, something that is going to make you better, you’re growing. Take the addition of a few work- outs to my running as an example. Not only did it help me get faster, but also it forced me to come out of my comfort zone and helped me grow.

An unpleasant smell floated into my nose as the bowl of fried stinky tofu(臭豆腐) settled onto my grandmother's dinner table. I immediately sat back. The smell ruined my appetite, and I pushed the dish away.

“It's supposed to stink. Just give it a try!” my grandmother said.

Holding my breath, I unwillingly took a bite. To my surprise, the tofu beneath the fried skin was warm, soft, and mouth-watering. Since then, whenever I visited my grandmother's house, I would rush to the kitchen for the stinky tofu with excitement. Thus, stinky tofu became more than a household tradition. It became my favorite dish.

Along with the stinky tofu, I would meet my Uncle Chan on every visit. As an immature boy, I never understood my uncle's condition of Down syndrome(唐氏综合征).

He was an unfriendly and terrible creature in my eyes. He constantly walked around the house, talking to himself. Whenever he appeared, I would run away in fear.

However, one day, my view about my uncle suddenly changed. I was just getting out of my bed when I heard soft steps approaching. It was my uncle. My muscles froze. He slowly sat next to me and touched my face gently, as a mother would stroke (抚摸)a baby. A wide smile emerged from his blank expression. How beautiful his smile was! I could not help but smile back. My fear disappeared gradually, and my muscles relaxed. For the first time, I could see softness and warmth in his eyes.

My uncle very much resembles stinky tofu. Stinky tofu smells unpleasant on the outside,yet feels warm and soft in the inside. Like stinky tofu,my uncle's Down syndrome made me keep my distance at first. Yet, I learned that deep inside, he is harmless and has a loving nature.

Some people tend to look down upon disabled people and regard them as unfit for a regular life. As I was unable to see through the outer surface of the tofu, these people are unable to see through the surface of prejudice(偏见). As a result, they judge the disabled with one glance.

The outside and inside of the stinky tofu exist as two extremely different worlds. Perhaps that is what makes it such a tasty dish. Not only is it delicious, stinky tofu offers a valuable lesson:never judge people at first glance, for true beauty comes from the inside.

My neighbors across the street take pride in one of the most striking trees in the neighborhood — a towering oak that is over 75 years old. This year, after a wet, warm summer, leaves were a bit different in my Massachusetts town. And through some combination of events, that glorious oak seemed to have dropped all of its uncountable leaves on a single windy day. I arrived at home that afternoon to find our front walkway, driveway and sidewalk completely blanketed.

My son and I had a great time making a leaf pile for jumping and enjoying pillowy fun. The whole time, I was fascinated by the speed of this year’s leaf drop. Even though I was aware that it was an accident of wind patterns that left all the leaves in our yard, I kept looking up and feeling a rush of awe at the suddenly bare branches that watched quietly over our neighborhood, starting its restful season before setting spring leaf buds.

And I felt thankful for those fallen leaves as I was reminded of my favorite quote from the author and naturalist Hal Borland. He wrote it referencing October, but this year’s later drop had me change the month: “November is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations (星座) above them once again.”

When I lay in that pile of dry, crisp leaves and looked up into the oak tree across the street, I felt a clarity and peace that comes along with the inconveniently early sunsets and chilly temperatures of the transition from fall into winter. I could still admire the tree as I had in spring and summer, but I could also see through it, beyond it, to the big sky that blankets us all.