Long after most of my friends in their fifties had given up running, I continued. Not every day, and not very far, and not for very long. Better, I thought, to save my knees to run again another day than to push myself to go another mile or another twenty minutes. For the last few years, I’ve run less in the hope of running longer. If I was careful, I figured, I would run right into my sixties.
Even so, there wasn’t 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’t cross my mind: “But one day, I know, it will be otherwise.”
“Otherwise” is Jane Kenyon’s 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’s fleetingness, of change, of mortality.
The lines of this heart-breakingly prescient poem always give me pause. Jane Kenyon died of leukemia at forty-seven. Her “otherwise” came tragically soon, a stark reminder – as is every untimely death or freak accident or life-changing diagnosis – that our very existence here is fragile, unpredictable, not to be taken for granted.
And yet, I suspect I’m not alone when I admit that most days it’s a challenge to maintain that perspective. Perhaps it’s human nature to weave ourselves a thin, protective mantle of denial about life’s one and only absolute truth: nothing lasts.
Waking up in the morning, I set my sights on the beginnings of things, not the endings – I run through my to-do list, ponder the essay I want to write, wonder where I’ll find the hour I need to exercise, think about the talk I’ll give next week. Before long, I’m 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: not what I’d planned, not quite up to my expectations, not this, not that.
Fortunately, I’ve always known where to find an instant antidote to my own petty annoyances. No matter how out of sorts I am—with 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. 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’s snow – noticing these things, I’m restored to my better self, refreshed by wonder: the world is at once beautiful and harsh, living and dying, always in flux — and I’m changing, too, just one small part of the infinitely complex, eternal flow.
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 – a moment which, I remind myself with each step, is already in the process of turning into something else. 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’m here, heart pounding and two strong legs carrying me onward as the miles accumulate in my wake.
Over the last several months, I’ve had to confront the first chronic injury of my life. 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.
“A writing injury,” 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’t fix. Unable to run, I settled for power walking instead. 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. Other days, the pain had its way with me and I was forced to stillness.
But instead of healing, the injury deepened and, in a sort of domino effect, led to yet more trouble. By January, I had to lift my left leg with both hands in order to get in and out of the car. Putting on my underpants required slow motion and deep breaths and even so resulted in sharp, shooting pains through my thigh. 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. There was no good position. There have been many nights with no sleep, either.
It’s hard for me to admit what a struggle this has been. Being forced to give up the very activities I’ve long relied on for my peace of mind has been humbling, to say the least. 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. Yet 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.
One 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 – a fast, determined walk.
Two steps, four, six, stop. I hadn’t even reached the mailbox before the spasms in my thigh had me gasping in pain. It was January and twelve degrees. Our beautiful dog had been gone two months and I missed her desperately. My 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.
And then I stopped again. I couldn’t bear to give up and go back inside. But I couldn’t take my walk, either. What to do?
Slowly and with great care, I turned around once more. I took a long deep breath and one very, very small step. “Soften, soften, soften,” I whispered to myself, to my heart, to the poor inflamed muscles in my leg. Instead of contracting the hurt place, I tried relaxing it completely. Instead of moving quickly, I barely moved at all. The pain eased a little, clearing space for another deep breath, another tiny step, a glimmer of understanding. Maybe, just maybe, I was ok right where I was. And maybe, if I released my white-knuckle grip on all I couldn’t have and all I couldn’t do, I could find a different way to move forward.
For weeks, I realized, I’d been angry. Perhaps moving forward really meant moving beyond that impotent, helpless anger and surrendering instead to everything I couldn’t fix or control. I’d been annoyed at my body for letting me down; why not be grateful to it for still holding me up? I’d been disappointed by my failure to cope with grace; why not acknowledge that I’d done the best I could? I’d been secretly disgusted at myself for not being invincible; why not yield at last to my own tender humanness?
I 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.
Letting go of my anger meant letting go of the suffering I was bringing upon myself. There was nothing I could do about the pain in my leg, but I could do something about my attitude toward it. 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.
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’t have to look far to see things falling apart. But as this winter has taught me, to know loss in the mind isn’t the same as learning it in the body or feeling it in the heart.
There is nothing quite like pain – 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’re lucky, we may begin to glimpse some small measures of grace and meaning even in the midst of changes we couldn’t have foreseen and circumstances we never would have chosen.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been deeply moved by a friend’s unwavering presence and empathy. I’ve been thankful for my husband’s 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. I’ve written more, read more, rested more. I’ve cried more. I’ve watched the snow fall day after day and left the shoveling to others. I’ve found a way to practice yoga that is safe and therapeutic and, in my classes, a way to teach poses that I can’t do myself. I’ve stepped outside at dusk, buckled on my snowshoes, and taken a few gentle expeditions through weightless powder into the silent woods. I’ve chosen gratitude as often as I could. I’ve taken time to appreciate each small good thing.
And, a month later, I’m feeling somewhat better. Softness and acceptance creates a more fertile ground for healing than resentment and resistance. Instead of pushing myself each day, I’m finding that patience is its own kind of progress. I’m trying harder to listen to my body, rather than forcing it to listen to me. No longer adversaries, we’re working together to find a new way forward – not running anymore, but still moving, albeit at a different pace.
Today, for the first time in a long time, I find that I can walk without pain. In Florida visiting my mom for the week, I feel liberated after these long, cold winter months spent mostly inside. It is t-shirt weather here, and everything is green with life. I’m taking it slow, one step at a time, in no hurry to get anywhere. I’m 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. It is a joy to be here, putting one foot carefully in front of the other.
One day, I know, it will be otherwise.
Otherwise
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
~ Jane Kenyon
Thank you so much for this, Katrina. As always, your wisdom is refreshing and healing. “Softness and acceptance creates a more fertile ground for healing than resentment and resistance.” Amen. I wish you softness and acceptance. And love.
Another beautiful, thoughtful essay Katrina! I love the poem “Otherwise!” I try to practice this mindfulness daily, but unfortunately “real” life gets in the way, and interrupts this state of gratitude! This reminds me of a song my Irish born mother taught us ” One Day At A Time.” ” one day at a time sweet Jesus , that’s all I’m asking from you, just give me the strength to do everyday what I have to do. Yesterday’s gone sweet Jesus and tomorrow may never be mine. Lord help me today, show me the way One day at a time.” Enjoy your visit with you Mom! So blessed to have our parents with us still!
So well said!! I wish you healing and peace. You always know just what to say and how to help others see things in a new light!
Thank you for sharing your journey and vulnerability. Yours is one of very few blogs I choose to read. Grateful for the day, and for your words, Lauren
Bless you, Katrina, for sharing your thoughts as you make this difficult journey. I often think acceptance is our greatest challenge of all. I envy your days in sunshine as we face another week in the teens, and know that it will help heal your body and, perhaps more importantly, your soul.
Very happy to see that you are indeed listening to your body. Nothing happens without reason. We just don’t understand in the moment. You needed to slow down and take good care of yourself. The more you focus consciously on releasing those muscles in your leg, the less pain you will feel. You are the master of your body don’t forget. Congratulations on listening and being gentle to YOU!! Love and Light.
It’s frustrating as heck when our body lets us down, and then when the body goes, it somehow hijacks faith with it. Glad to read your words this morning and remind myself that even if you’re going slow, you’re going.
This essay came into my mail box at such an appropriate time! I have spent the past month dealing with a very badly sprained ankle, and experiencing great anger, frustration and disappointment at only being able to do the minimum. My yoga practice came to a standstill, and I’ve been devastated! Found my way back to class this week, and felt such gratitude to be on my mat, and so appreciative of being able to modify some of my poses and baby myself a bit. Thank you for sharing your injury and healing with us all. I send you loving wishes and prayers for a full and complete recovery! Enjoy the warm weather and your visit!
Three letters for your healing: A-R-T Active Release Technique. Your son at Life will probably know what it is, as it is typically performed by chiropractors. This technique often provides relief after one session and can reduce the healing time significantly.
Brilliant. I loved all of it, but especially this, ” Perhaps moving forward really meant moving beyond that impotent, helpless anger and surrendering instead to everything I couldn’t fix or control.” This really hit home for me. Thanks for a beautiful and moving essay.
Recovery is humbling. When I was recently recovering from rotator cuff surgery a random man in Starbucks looked at me with my shoulder sling and said, “It’s a special time for you”, I thought at first he was crazy, but I was surprised at how many times I reflected on his words; he was wise, not crazy. When my mom said the same thing to me it became my mantra. I hope you are able to enjoy the old pleasures soon, and find new ones. Your words are always special. Thank you for sharing.
Most people take for granted the amazing things our bodies can do, like bend, walk reach and turn. It’ second nature, until injury happens. Then we get angry and frustrated with ourselves because we can’t do the things we’re used to doing. We hate being dependent on others. I turned 60 this year. I never thought of myself as handicapped although I have a handicapped plate on my car. I like to do things on my own when I can. I turned 60 this year and my parts have been wearing out for awhile. In 2001, I had my left hip replaced. In 2007, I had my right hip replaced. In 2013, I had my knee replaced. The other one is almost there, and shoulders and neck are now acting up. I’m also blind in one eye and have been for the past 55 years. I am married, have two almost grown children. I drive a car. Art is my passion. I cannot stop to think about all the things I cannot do or I would not be able to do anything. I am so thankful for the things I can do and appreciative for the small things like being able to take a shower or walk outside to my car. I try to go somewhere each day if the weather allows, just to keep moving helps me. Thank you for reminding me how grateful I am to be in this life each day.
First off, let me say how sorry I am for what you have been going through. Living in constant pain is an unbearable burden. I know what you have gone through, because this past year, I have been through much of the same sort of thing. Last February, at the age of 39 I started to experience some pain in my face. I wrote it off as a sinus infection and waited for it to go away. Well, it just got worse and worse. With every movement of my head, I felt searing pain in the left side of my face. It hurt to walk to the mailbox, it hurt to eat because my teeth felt like they were falling out, I couldn’t play catch with my son. Even when I was sitting still there was a constant aching pain that just wouldn’t leave me. It took me months to get appointments with my doctors, and when I did see them, they put me on many rounds of antibiotics thinking it was a sinus infection. When the antibiotics didn’t work, I had to get referrals to ENTs and Neurologists. It was more months before I got my diagnosis-Neuralgia.In al, it was 10 months before I finally got some medicine to help me deal with the pain. I was frustrated and confused. I would cry to my husband every night and try to stay as strong as I could for my kids. I wanted to give up on life, because I couldn’t imagine living like I was for much longer. Now, the medicine helps. I’m not totally better, but I can move more freely. I am relieved to be able to eat things other than soups and applesauce. I can go on hikes, but I cannot run. Not even a brisk jog. I’ll never be able to go on a rollercoaster with my kids again. I have played catch with my son, but I feel the mild effects of it for days later. It was so hard. It still is. I’m only 40 and I never expected to be so physically limited at this age. What I noticed during all this is that most people are fighting similar battles. My best friend is battling thyroid cancer. My mother died from breast cancer at 48. My father in law has Parkinsons and struggles to get around every day. I am just so grateful that I made it through those long hard months when all I wanted was to give up. I felt like I was betrayed by my body. Now I love my body more than ever. I am so appreciative of all that it gives me despite what it can’t. Embrace every moment. I get it now. I wish, hope, and pray that your body finds relief.
I have this very poem printed out, currently sitting on my kitchen table, from the first time you shared it in this space. It is a beautiful and important reminder to appreciate what is….appreciate being alive.
Your mantra of “soften, soften, soften” is a good one to adopt, for all sorts of “injuries”–physical, emotional, spiritual–To take a deep breath, and soften one’s attitude/perspective of whatever is challenging her/him.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and reflections on dealing with pain and disappointment. I hope you continue to heal and soften, appreciating all that is.
Sincerely, Lisa
YES! This line: “Maybe, just maybe, I was ok right where I was.” That is it, dear sister goddess!!!!!! A beautiful human BEing you are! “….began to hear what it had to say.” YES! I like to say, “Who we are now is the answer to everything!” And this chokes me up. “Instead of pushing myself each day, I’m finding that patience is its own kind of progress. I’m trying harder to listen to my body, rather than forcing it to listen to me. No longer adversaries, we’re working together to find a new way forward – not running anymore, but still moving, albeit at a different pace.” Thanks for sharing and writing about it so beautifully, Katrina!
You are writing part of my story! As a 60-year-old who started running and loving it in my mid-40’s, I can relate so well with your passion and need for the sport, the anger of being betrayed by your body, and panic to recover. My daughter Renee at http://fimby.tougas.net forwarded me this article. My heart is with you, Katrina, and love your poem. My wish for us both is that we will be wise with our gift-returned, and grow ever more in softness and thankfulness – in everything.
(If you are interested, I’ve added my “rebound” story.) http://www.realfoodmatters.ca/node/43
Powerful and thought provoking! Through your words I was able to capture a glimpse into my own life. Thankyou!!!
Thank you for sharing this, Katrina. As always-your words speak to me on so many levels. While spending the day during my dear friend’s last six weeks, she told me how the night before she had decided to have a pleasant chat with her tumor. She said, “Everything in this world has a good side and a bad side–I decided I’d had enough with this monster’s bad side. So, I spoke to its good side and appealed to it as a mother, sister, daughter, friend. I told that tumor–‘please, I don’t want to fight you because I know you’re going to win. But can you just give me a little more time to spend with my family and get my affairs in order?’ She said she felt an immediate peace and it stayed with her until the end. I will try to remember the “softness and acceptance” approach as I move along on my own journey. Thank you again. Hope you’re enjoying Florida. Looking forward to seeing you next week.
Softness does create a more fertile ground for healing, always. This is so true. Why is it so easy to forget?! I always look forward to reading your words, Katrina. They nourish me on many levels. Thank you, too, for pointing me to Amy’s blog, My Path with Stars Bestrewn. What a gorgeous writer and soul she is! Glad you are starting to feel better. xoxo
It will be otherwise…oh, do I acutely understand this right now. What a helpful mantra for us to remember…right there with “all will be well”. Softening- why is it such a hard concept for women to accept? The idea that we can soften goes so against all that we’ve been groomed to believe about how we break out, move forward, and become validated. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Katrina,
It breaks my heart to know how long you have been struggling with pain of this magnitude. I wish I could wave a wand over you and heal this injury! I’m relieved to know you’re moving more comfortably again and am glad you’re finding sunny respite in Florida.
You describe the brief, halting, weepy walk you took to the mailbox as the first true step toward your healing. Instead of ignoring and resisting the pain, you stood in the middle of that road, softened your focus, relaxed into the moment, and began to listen. How beautiful. Although it makes me cry to imagine what intense pain you must have felt in that moment, I’m grateful for the grace that flooded your heart and mind as you stood at the crossroads of expectation and reality. As I read the remainder of your essay, the words of Robert Frost kept echoing through my mind: “Always fall in with what you’re asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever’s going. Not against: with.”
May you continue to listen, not only to your body, but to the whispered wisdom of the spirit. Someday soon, may you find yourself pain free. Be assured that many healing prayers are with you. xox
Exactly what I needed to read today. Thank you.
Just another ordinary day but what a great message.
Hi, Katrina. You’ve captured so well the lessons the body teaches even when our minds and will resist. Eight years ago now, I went out for a New Year’s morning boogie board ride and ended up in the ER with a neck injury in my neck and a herniated disk in my back. One minute I was 50 and so happy I could still play and enjoy my body in this way. The next, I was numb in some areas, rigid with pain in others, and filled with fear. It took several years to work through all the physical stuff and I consider myself as healed as I will ever be but the critical point in the healing process was facing the fear and anger and frustration that came with not being able to do very simple things. Like you, I found that pain could be made worse or better when I listened to what it was trying to tell me. I’ve learned,, as you have, to savor the things my body can do. Lately, my wrists and hands are giving my trouble. The fear that comes with this new reminder of the passage of time is there but so are some of the tools I had to acquire after the accident. I am grateful for those tools and for the time I have to use them.
Thanks for sharing and so eloquently written. This spoke to me as I’ve also recently been faced with chronic pain. We are of similar age and it’s a hard thing to come to terms with that you may not be able to do some of the same things physically you’ve always done and taken for granted. Thank you for this perspective and I hope you will continue to feel better.
Wonderful … we all have learned to “measure” ourselves against arbitrary standards, and then one day, we realize … most of them are nonsense. And we allow ourselves to simply be, and that, is perhaps the main thing we are meant to grasp in this mortal guise. But the learning process always surprises us … like a jolt, things are indeed otherwise. I’m glad I dropped by this evening, Katrina. Enjoyed this!
I am so sorry you’ve been dealing with this. I do know how that feels…I have been stopped in my tracks by a foot injury that prevented me from my long walks every day, the very thing that keeps me sane and puts order into my life. It was not a pretty picture or a happy time.
The poem Otherwise is so often on my heart, and I am always moved by its message.
I wish you contined healing in the warm southern sunshine 🙂
It never ceases to amaze me how often your current blog post addresses some exact feeling that I am having that very day. Your blog yesterday about your injury and limitations that come with our previous injuries and aging really hit home. I’m not a runner, but a power walker, and that has been limited this winter due to the frigid and icy winter in the east. While I prefer to walk outdoors due to the other “benefits” you described, I decided to begin walking on a treadmill instead of risking life and limb on the icy paths. At first the endorphins kicked in, which was wonderful, but now my right hip is really bothering me as a result of the walking. I, too, have difficulty stretching to put my underwear on in the morning. I thought this was something just plaguing me. I continue to struggle with body parts that don’t work like they used to and lots of loose skin and sagging. And, I am fighting and resisting this aging process. Thanks for sharing your thoughts. As we go on this journey, it is comforting to know that there are others on the path with us, and we are not alone. We can share with, and support one another, to get through this.time of our lives. Not only get through it, but begin to appreciate it.
“Softness and acceptance creates a more fertile ground for healing than resentment and resistance. Instead of pushing myself each day, I’m finding that patience is its own kind of progress.” Thank you so much for sharing. This is exactly what I need to read on my path to healing.
So sorry to hear you’ve been in pain, and thank you for (again) blessing us with your journey. There’s nothing redemptive about pain itself, but being forced to slow down seems to have its upside if we can find it. (My first writing gig out of college was as feature writer for a daily newspaper. I remember interviewing a man in a wheelchair who’d started a campus group for people with disabilities. They called people without disabilities “TABs”–meaning temporarily able-bodied. At 24 I thought this was kind of hyperbolic and ridiculous, but at 47 I totally get it!)
Katrina, Daisy Hickman referred me to your site and I am thrilled she did. Your thoughtful essay resonated with me. I have been struggling with some declining function over this past year, including knee problems. It is a grieving process but I’m working on reframing it-as a cancer survivor of 18 years, I am very lucky to still be here. I am learning to accept my limits without caving into them. Do what I can and listen to my body. As my dear dad would say, “grow old gracefully.” BTW, he took his portable oxygen tank and walker to the YMCA to walk around the track and do exercises right up until a few weeks before he died at the age of 88. As long as we keep moving because as you say so eloquently, “it could be otherwise.” Thank you for a lovely post, so bittersweet in its beauty.
Kathy Pooler
http://krpooler.com
Katrina, I read this shortly after returning from my second physical therapy visit following shoulder surgery…and shortly beforre returning to visit a couple of my hospice patients. Your essay spoke genty and eloquently to me…and I hope to be able to share the message with others in a manner that reflects the compassion and gentleness I felt from your words.
Like many others who’ve chimed in, I’m right there with you, trying to accept a new location for that fulcrum point where I balance my acceptance of what I am with what I used to be, physically speaking. (This metaphor could be extended to all sorts of other realms, but for now, I’ll stick to creaky, cranky joints and runs that have turned into walks.) So many things we think we know, and then we get to this new place. It’s like parenting, except that it’s ourselves we’re parenting, out of one stage, into the next. So much to be thankful for, if we can just stop judging ourselves now with visions of our previous selves. I’m trying not to berate myself these days for the time spent walking around the reservoir with binoculars in hand, time which is entirely required for my mental health but which doesn’t count as exercise, not in my old book anyhow…
I am so very grateful to know that there’s this little corner of the cybersphere where I can drop in and read wise words about the passages that we all face–you and me, it would seem, nearly simultaneously.
And thank you for including Jane Kenyon’s “Otherwise.” Perfection, truly.
There is so very much richness in these words and so much to say — I’ll try to be concise. But first, I’m so sorry you have had to exist with such debilitating and excruciating pain. I think anything physical (or emotional — but that’s another issue) that modifies your life radically can be a real shift in how we live and work — but pain makes it all the more challenging for it continually reminds us, every minute, of what we are and were. And I am so grateful that you have found a way to gently ease back into the world — to work with it, to move forward in grace.
And I’m so sorry you had to say goodbye to your dog in recent months. That’s another level of pain and sorrow on top of all the others.
You wrote this: “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.” That smacked me in the face with stunning accuracy. Last year was a rugged one for me with tests that indicated a two year chemo protocol during which I would lose vision. I am a writer, artist, creator. The thought was terrifying. On top of that, a major reorganization at my office — public relations and communications for a public television/radio station and the university college that it was part of — brought stress beyond any I’d experienced. I insisted on retesting and if that came back positive, then I was going to another place before the therapy. But regardless of the outcome, my life was changing.
I thought I could do it all. Work a 10 hour day, create, be a supportive and loving partner, keep my house up, deal with the day-to-day. I, too, was “unstoppable.”
And then I decided to stop one big thing. I retired. The biggest stress was released. My tests came back negative. I am regaining the strength and health that was lost in that year. Friday was my six month retirement anniversary. I blogged on The Marmelade Gypsy about how life has changed. And yes, now sometimes I DO feel unstoppable. Except I know that I’m not. That chronic illness doesn’t go away — it just goes down for awhile. I was humbled and no matter how good things are now — I can’t forget that.
SO, those eloquent words of yours are going up on my board above my desk as a reminder.
And finally, a note of thanks. My blog friend Becca sent me “Magical Journey.” I have returned to it often and soon will write about it on The Marmelade Gypsy. I’ve bought at least three copies for gifts and earlier this month while driving by Kripalu on a MA roadtrip, was reminded yet again and said to Rick’s sister in law — you have GOT to read this book!
What a gift you have given us. Thank you. And I hope your healing continues.
You write so beautifully. Thank you for sharing this wisdom. I’m truly blessed by your writing and feel thankful I found them when my chldren are still at the ages they are. I return to your writing constantly to help in my journey.
Whenever I’m feeling low or somehow not really up to my life, I read one of your books which I always have nearby. They lift my spirits and remind me to be thankful for all the blessings in my life. I am almost 78. I live alone with my lovable dog. I have more aches and pains than I can count. I have 3 of my 5 children living very near me and they visit often. The other 2 visit as often as possible. My wonderful husband of nearly 50 yrs. has gone to his reward and is, I hope, waiting for me. Reading others comments and positive thoughts reminds me of the special journey we are all on. How grateful I am for people like you and your wonderful books and all your followers. There really are wonderful souls in this world. I am thankful for all of them. God Bless