Otherwise

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 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

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