Slowing to gratitude

This month, I am attempting to write 50,000 words for my second novel (you may recall that I did this in June for my first one), which means my words are precious and I'm not so sure I have any to spare (since I also write as part of my new job, which is amazing). I'm hoping you will accept this short reflection as enough between now and December (when I will tell more about my job, my life, and adventures with Ace/Jason).

Last week, I threw out my back. I stepped out of the shower and bent down and bam! I was done for. I tried popping it by twisting. I tried stretching it. I tried icing it. The spot just below my shoulder blade still caused me great pain.

Now, I had started biking to work and with a majorly painful back, that was no longer an option. Jason dropped me off at the office in the mornings, but with his new job, he doesn't get out until after six. So, there arose the question of getting home. I don't live that far from work and I begrudged the fact that I wasn't getting my normal yoga and biking exercise in, so I decided to walk home.

I walked all over in Cambridge/Boston, so I assumed that I would be fine. For the most part, walking didn't aggravate my back and I actually enjoy being dependent upon my own two feet for transit. The first night, I headed out from work, matching the pace of the people around me. Pain shot from my back through my whole body, taking my breath away. I was worried I wouldn't make it. I had walked away from the bus stop and going back to it would be the same distance as making it halfway home. I took a deep breath and moaned, stopping for a moment. I adjusted my bag and began trudging up the hill again at a rapid pace. I made it only a few steps before the pain became so great that I couldn't continue.

From the corner of my eye, I witnessed fifteen people blow past me. I felt embarrassed and wondered how I looked to them. I am healthy looking enough. I am young. I wondered if they might wonder why I couldn't just walk. I must have appeared so out of shape. I started again, but slowed down to the point of a nice stroll. I realized my back didn't hurt (well, not the same way).

I don't like being slow. I don't like not being able to fix problems or find a solution. It frustrated me that I couldn't move more quickly because of one spot in my back, for goodness's sake. I wanted to fix my back and be done with it. But, there was no solution for my back, it just needed time (it still does need some time). I realized then that if I backed off a bit and didn't try to make my body feel 100% immediately, I could actually still function normally for most things, just a bit more slowly. I made my way home some time later and managed not to do anything that require movement from my back for the whole night.

Walking home the next day, I was tempted to rush again, but I slowed my pace and moved steadily toward my street. As I waited for a light that I barely missed (and would have historically run to catch), it dawned on me that slowing down might be exactly what I need right now. It's hard for me, nay nearly impossible for me, to not know what to do about my father's illness. I can't make him better and, honestly, I can't make everyone around him stop hurting. My own lacking has weighed down upon me heavily and like when my back seized up, I just want to rush through it. Get done with the pain and onto the feeling good. But, it turns out, that's not how life works. I don't know if my father will get better. I don't know if he will get worse. We don't have a definite prognosis, so rushing through anything won't make a difference. There's nothing to rush toward. As much as it hurts (both my back and facing my father's potential death and definite suffering), there's nothing I can do but sit with it. Sit with it and work through the pain slowly. It's a kind of surrender I haven't experienced in a long time and to allow myself to be this free, this responsive to what happens around me without an intention of fixing it, is a new kind of adulthood.

When I finally made it home the second day, I slowly climbed the stairs to find my big black dog whipping his chow tail around wildly, greeting me with love. On the counter, a simple note said, "I love you." It was a small victory, a small reward for my own perseverance. As I plopped down in the bed and my back stopped feeling like anything, gratitude washed over my body. I was home.