{"id":3510,"date":"2014-02-27T07:45:49","date_gmt":"2014-02-27T12:45:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.katrinakenison.com\/?p=3510"},"modified":"2014-02-27T07:45:49","modified_gmt":"2014-02-27T12:45:49","slug":"coping-injury","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/coping-injury\/","title":{"rendered":"Otherwise"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"heartL<\/span>ong after most of my friends in their fifties had given up running, I continued.\u00a0 Not every day, and not very far, and not for very long.\u00a0 Better, I thought, to save my knees to run again another day than to push myself to go another mile or another twenty minutes.\u00a0 For the last few years, I\u2019ve run less in the hope of running longer.\u00a0 If I was careful, I figured, I would run right into my sixties.<\/p>\n

Even so, there wasn\u2019t a morning that I laced up my sneakers and headed down the road with the wind in my hair, fresh air filling my lungs, and my beloved border collie Gracie trotting at my heels, that a line by poet Jane Kenyon didn\u2019t cross my mind: \u201cBut one day, I know, it will be otherwise.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOtherwise\u201d is Jane Kenyon\u2019s hymn of gratitude to her life just as it was on one blessed, ordinary day — gratitude that is burnished by her own profound awareness of life\u2019s fleetingness, of change, of mortality.<\/p>\n

The lines of this heart-breakingly prescient poem always give me pause.\u00a0 Jane Kenyon died of leukemia at forty-seven. Her \u201cotherwise\u201d came tragically soon, a stark reminder \u2013 as is every untimely death or freak accident or life-changing diagnosis \u2013 that our very existence here is fragile, unpredictable, not to be taken for granted.<\/p>\n

And yet, I suspect I\u2019m not alone when I admit that most days it\u2019s a challenge to maintain that perspective. Perhaps it\u2019s human nature to weave ourselves a thin, protective mantle of denial about life\u2019s one and only absolute truth: nothing lasts.<\/p>\n

Waking up in the morning, I set my sights on the beginnings of things, not the endings \u2013 I run through my to-do list, ponder the essay I want to write, wonder where I\u2019ll find the hour I need to exercise, think about the talk I\u2019ll give next week. Before long, I\u2019m preoccupied with bills to pay, emails to answer, the dishes piled in the sink. The preciousness of life is rarely uppermost in my mind as I deal with what the day hands me; too often, instead, I find myself succumbing to frustration at the way things are:\u00a0 not what I\u2019d planned, not quite up to my expectations, not this, not that.<\/p>\n

Fortunately, I\u2019ve always known where to find an instant antidote to my own petty annoyances. No matter how out of sorts I am\u2014with myself, with a family member, with the demands of a difficult day–I need only step outside to reconnect with my more mindful, expansive self.\u00a0 The clouds sailing overhead, a pair of cardinals taking turns at the feeder, a patch of damp earth newly revealed in a sunny corner by the front door, the slow erosion of last week\u2019s snow \u2013 noticing these things, I\u2019m restored to my better self, refreshed by wonder: the world is at once beautiful and harsh, living and dying, always in flux — and I\u2019m changing, too, just one small part of the infinitely complex, eternal flow.<\/p>\n

Running in all kinds of weather, feeling that inimitable rush of endorphin-induced well-being, has long been my quickest, clearest path both to peace and into the present moment \u2013 a moment which, I remind myself with each step, is already in the process of turning into something else.\u00a0 How to respond — other than by giving thanks again and again for my own strong body, for my life as it is, for the simple fact that I\u2019m here<\/i>, heart pounding and two strong legs carrying me onward as the miles accumulate in my wake.<\/p>\n

O<\/span>ver the last several months, I\u2019ve had to confront the first chronic injury of my life.\u00a0 The initial problem, ironically, was the result not of running, but of too many hours spent sitting cross-legged with a lap desk for my computer balanced on my knees.<\/p>\n

\u201cA writing injury,\u201d I said at first, laughing it off, certain my pulled groin muscle was nothing a little time and a different position in the chair wouldn\u2019t fix. Unable to run, I settled for power walking instead.\u00a0 I grudgingly gave up jump-backs in yoga and found I had to think carefully before making a lunge forward. Some days, I pushed through the discomfort to do exactly what I wanted to do, groin muscle be damned.\u00a0 Other days, the pain had its way with me and I was forced to stillness.<\/p>\n

But instead of healing, the injury deepened and, in a sort of domino effect, led to yet more trouble.\u00a0 By January, I had to lift my left leg with both hands in order to get in and out of the car.\u00a0 Putting on my underpants required slow motion and deep breaths and even so resulted in sharp, shooting pains through my thigh.\u00a0 Stairs were agony. If I dropped something on the floor, I left it there rather than attempt to bend over to pick it up. Yoga, always a joyful release and exploration, became just another challenge to endure, my attempts to modify poses finally resulting in more time spent sitting on my mat than doing asana practice. Lying in bed, with a pillow propping up my knee, my entire left hip and leg throbbed.\u00a0 There was no good position. \u00a0There have been many nights with no sleep, either.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s hard for me to admit what a struggle this has been.\u00a0 Being forced to give up the very activities I\u2019ve long relied on for my peace of mind has been humbling, to say the least.\u00a0 An injured leg is hardly traumatic in the great scheme of things; I have friends and loved ones who are dealing with far more debilitating health issues. \u00a0Yet as the weeks went by, the combination of discomfort and inactivity and sleeplessness brought me to my knees. Life felt constricted, narrowed down to a monochromatic prism of pain, frustration, exhaustion.<\/p>\n

O<\/span>ne day last month, after a long week of being cooped up in the house and barely moving, my leg seemed just a bit better. I put on layers of warm clothes against the sub-freezing temperatures, stepped outside and, eager to get some exercise at last, set off down the road at my usual clip \u2013 a fast, determined walk.<\/p>\n

Two steps, four, six, stop<\/i>.\u00a0 I hadn\u2019t even reached the mailbox before the spasms in my thigh had me gasping in pain.\u00a0 It was January and twelve degrees.\u00a0 Our beautiful dog had been gone two months and I missed her desperately. \u00a0My leg refused to do my bidding, instead it pulsed back at me in furious protest. I turned toward the house in defeat, tears freezing on my cheeks.<\/p>\n

And then I stopped again.\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t bear to give up and go back inside. But I couldn\u2019t take my walk, either. What to do?<\/p>\n

Slowly and with great care, I turned around once more.\u00a0 I took a long deep breath and one very, very small step.\u00a0 \u201cSoften, soften, soften,\u201d I whispered to myself, to my heart, to the poor inflamed muscles in my leg.\u00a0 Instead of contracting the hurt place, I tried relaxing it completely. Instead of moving quickly, I barely moved at all.\u00a0 The pain eased a little, clearing space for another deep breath, another tiny step, a glimmer of understanding.\u00a0 Maybe, just maybe, I was ok right where I was.\u00a0 And maybe, if I released my white-knuckle grip on all I couldn\u2019t have and all I couldn\u2019t do, I could find a different way to move forward.<\/p>\n

For weeks, I realized, I\u2019d been angry.\u00a0 Perhaps moving forward really meant moving beyond that impotent, helpless anger and surrendering instead to everything I couldn\u2019t fix or control.\u00a0 I\u2019d been annoyed at my body for letting me down; why not be grateful to it for still holding me up? I\u2019d been disappointed by my failure to cope with grace; why not acknowledge that I\u2019d done the best I could? I\u2019d been secretly disgusted at myself for not being invincible; why not yield at last to my own tender humanness?<\/p>\n

I<\/span> suspect now that the brief, halting, weepy walk I took on that bitter January day was in fact my first true step toward healing. After months of ignoring and resisting the information my injury was offering me, I finally stood in the middle of the road, with no idea which way to turn next, and began to hear what it had to say.<\/p>\n

Letting go of my anger meant letting go of the suffering I was bringing upon myself.\u00a0 There was nothing I could do about the pain in my leg, but I could do something about my attitude toward it.\u00a0 Perhaps what I most needed to be cured of was not my over-stretched groin muscle, but my ego — the idea that I am unstoppable.<\/p>\n

This, of course, is the central task of growing up and of growing old: learning to ride the ineluctable waves of loss and sorrow as we come face to face with the truth of our own unimportance and our own impermanence. Life has offered me plenty of opportunities to practice of late. Suffice it to say, I don\u2019t have to look far to see things falling apart.\u00a0 But as this winter has taught me, to know loss in the mind isn\u2019t the same as learning it in the body or feeling it in the heart.<\/p>\n

There is nothing quite like pain \u2013 be it physical or emotional — to shine a bright light on just how vulnerable we really are. We can put up a stoic front, or go down kicking and fighting. Or, if we\u2019re lucky, we may begin to glimpse some small measures of grace and meaning even in the midst of changes we couldn\u2019t have foreseen and circumstances we never would have chosen.<\/p>\n

Over the last few weeks, I\u2019ve been deeply moved by a friend\u2019s unwavering presence and empathy. I\u2019ve been thankful for my husband\u2019s steady support and encouragement, for several sessions of deep-tissue bodywork that brought instant relief, for my yoga teacher’s intuitive care, for hot showers and Ibuprofen and every hour of uninterrupted sleep. \u00a0I\u2019ve written more, read more, rested more. I\u2019ve cried more. I\u2019ve watched the snow fall day after day and left the shoveling to others.\u00a0 I\u2019ve found a way to practice yoga that is safe and therapeutic and, in my classes, a way to teach poses that I can\u2019t do myself.\u00a0 I\u2019ve stepped outside at dusk, buckled on my snowshoes, and taken a few gentle expeditions through weightless powder into the silent woods.\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019ve chosen gratitude as often as I could. I\u2019ve taken time to appreciate each small good thing.<\/p>\n

And, a month later, I\u2019m feeling somewhat better.\u00a0 Softness and acceptance creates a more fertile ground for healing than resentment and resistance.\u00a0 Instead of pushing myself each day, I\u2019m finding that patience is its own kind of progress.\u00a0 I\u2019m trying harder to listen to my body, rather than forcing it to listen to me.\u00a0 No longer adversaries, we\u2019re working together to find a new way forward \u2013 not running anymore, but still moving, albeit at a different pace.<\/p>\n

Today, for the first time in a long time, I find that I can walk without pain.\u00a0 In Florida visiting my mom for the week, I feel liberated after these long, cold winter months spent mostly inside.\u00a0 It is t-shirt weather here, and everything is green with life. I\u2019m taking it slow, one step at a time, in no hurry to get anywhere.\u00a0 I\u2019m thankful for the breeze on my cheek, the measured rhythm of my steps on the pavement, the sweat needling my back, the ghost of a heart in the sidewalk. The hibiscus are in bloom. Palm fronds click in the breeze. A mockingbird delivers its wildly exuberant medley as I pass beneath its perch.\u00a0 It is a joy to be here, putting one foot carefully in front of the other.<\/p>\n

One day, I know, it will be otherwise.<\/p>\n

\n

Otherwise<\/span><\/h3>\n
\n

I got out of bed
\non two strong legs.
\nIt might have been
\notherwise. I ate
\ncereal, sweet
\nmilk, ripe, flawless
\npeach. It might
\nhave been otherwise.
\nI took the dog uphill
\nto the birch wood.
\nAll morning I did
\nthe work I love.<\/p>\n

At noon I lay down
\nwith my mate. It might
\nhave been otherwise.
\nWe ate dinner together
\nat a table with silver
\ncandlesticks. It might
\nhave been otherwise.
\nI slept in a bed
\nin a room with paintings
\non the walls, and
\nplanned another day
\njust like this day.
\nBut one day, I know,
\nit will be otherwise.<\/p>\n

~ Jane Kenyon<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Long after most of my friends in their fifties had given up running, I continued.\u00a0 Not every day, and not very far, and not for very long.\u00a0 Better, I thought, to save my knees to run again another day than to push myself to go another mile or another twenty minutes.\u00a0 For the last few […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15183,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[17,3,22,32,33,39,14],"tags":[62,198],"class_list":{"0":"post-3510","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-acceptance","8":"category-aging-2","9":"category-change","10":"category-healing","11":"category-impermanence-soul-work","12":"category-midlife","13":"category-soul-work","14":"tag-aging","15":"tag-gratitude-2","16":"entry"},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/10\/600x600.png?fit=600%2C600","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3510","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3510"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3510\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15183"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3510"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3510"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3510"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}