Day 23

"What would I find out about the rain if I didn't run inside?"

I saw this quote years ago and love it. I don't know who wrote it, but s/he was probably a Washingtonian.

We've had a long dry spell, but tonight the rain fell gently for my walk. I wore my hooded parka so as not to ruin my hairdo. Yes, I'm kind of particular about my hair. But my hood made it hard to hear Mark and Tessa when they were talking and gave me tunnel vision. And then I remembered this quote.

So I risked my do and took off my hood.

We lived on a wooded acre growing up and I absolutely loved walking through the woods in the rain. Rain dripping off the end of my nose; rain catching on my eyelashes, rain running down my neck. Tonight the rain fell soft and steady. My hair flattened from its weight, but I didn't care. Without my hood, my face was exposed to the rain and was cleansed by each drop.

It's become second nature for me to run inside when it's raining. I don't want to get my shoes wet or have to dry off my clothes. I don't want my hair to get ruined or my make-up to run. I just think of the inconvenience of rain. Tonight I was reminded of how much I love walking in the rain. Just like the smell of oatmeal on a winter morning, rain on my face makes me feel like a child again.

And, similarly, it's easy for me to duck my head when I'm feeling drenched by life. I want to hide in my hood and protect myself from the deluge. I think only of how inconvenient and hard it all is. After tonight, I'll remember that there's a bonus when I poke my head out from beneath my hood. I'll remember that I might find something I love if I just take a risk.

Day 22

When opportunity knocks, I generally answer the door.

Today Tessa was invited to play at the school playground. As I was driving her to school it dawned on me that I could meet my initial goal of walking her to school. Well, I'd be walking her back from school, but the intention is the same. So, I drove back home and, fifteen minutes before it was time to pick her up, I donned my coat, pleaded with my son to join me, harnessed up the dog, and set off on my mile walk.

It was a lovely day to walk. Spring is showing her sweet, innocent face already. I was able to talk with my son about school. Before I knew it, we were at school and it was time to turn around and walk the half a mile back home.

The walk home was pleasant and relatively pain free. I was more invested in talking with the kids than I was in paying attention to the walk. And I realize now how normal that was.

So no fanfare, no confetti thrown at me upon my arrival home, no cheers and whistles. Just a normal, everyday kind of walk to pick my daughter up from the school playground.

What an opportunity.

Now I plan for my two mile hike. I want to walk and smell the cedar and fir trees while I sweat from climbing a hill. I want to be breathless, not only from the hike, but from my surroundings.

And maybe we'll bring some confetti to celebrate.

Day 21

When I was a girl my family always went to the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Seattle. Mom and Dad were proud of our Irish heritage, making St. Patrick's Day one of the High Holy Days of the year. The parade ended at Pioneer Square where we listened to a few speeches and then, my favorite part, we watch some Irish dancing.

It always took my breath away to watch the dancers; I was memorized by the movement, the flow, the grace, the fluidity of these dancers. Tears welled in my eyes from my longing to be one of them, to feel my body move in that way. We didn't have a lot of money so I knew to not even ask. Besides, traveling half an hour for a lesson of any kind was unheard of in my family. We went to the piano teacher up the street and ice skating lessons two blocks away. So I held my love of and fantasy of learning Irish dancing all to myself.

In high school, before my accident, I was one of four dancers in the school play, Brigadoon. We were taught a Scottish Reel to perform during the play. This was the closest I got to Irish dancing. During practice I developed shin splints and had to ice them for relief. I didn't play sports as a child, never took dance lessons, so this was the first thing that allowed me to really be in my body. The shin splints were an added bonus only because they made me realize that I had to take care of my body and that my body had limits.

A few years later I lost my leg. I spent a few years readjusting to my new body and then, with full force, I spent a number of years trying lots of activities that allowed me to be in my body, to experience it fully, to test it's capacity and it's limits. I skied, I tried skydiving and scuba diving, I backpacked, I kayaked, I rockclimbed, I sailboarded. Though only a few of the activities stuck as ones I loved, trying all of them gave me the opportunity to find my body and see what it was made of.

Without any prodding from me (it's all my brother-in-law's doing), my daughter started Scottish Highland dancing when she was six years old, four years ago. She competes regularly and had a competition today. While the whole dance form and the competitions are sometimes too restrictive for my taste, I am so pleased that my daughter started learning - at such a young age - how to be in and how to use her body. She has developed such grace and poise from this practice, from being on stage and being judged. I hope she's developing the life long habits that I took so long to learn.

While Scottish Dancing is different than Irish dancing, I get to watch my daughter deftly and gracefully move to the ancient beat of the mournful bagpipes. And this is enough.

Day 20

Even thirty two years later, there are still times when I want to be normal. Sometimes I really miss having two legs.

I want to run. I want to skip down a long flight of stairs like I did as a child. I want to be able to wear high heels with a black sexy dress just once in my life. I want to ride a bike. I want to do yoga free from any damn adaptations.

But all that will never happen. I know that. And I still have days when the feeling comes up again, "I wish....." and I have to let it go.

There's a sweetness in longing, in wishing for something, when you know it's possible. When it's not, longing is a dangerous slope. I know there's more to life than running and a sexy little black dress. A lot more. And I've always wanted to suck all that I can from life and have it drip down my chin all sticky and sweet. That's what I really long for.

I've adapted over the years and created my own normal. My normal is a hop skip instead of running; climbing stairs two at a time; sitting on the floor with my prosthetic leg sticking out straight (usually getting in the way of the other people with whom I'm on the floor) and a myriad of other ways I've accommodated this body. Even my limp is normal for me. So normal, in fact, that when I see videos of myself, I wonder who the heck is the one limping. I don't feel myself limp so when I see my limp, I'm taken aback.

And now I'm making walking normal again. Today I took two walks! No blisters, no sores, just two lovely walks; one with my husband and one with my daughter. Taking these short walks is not in any way a physical challenge for them, but for me, it's not only a challenge, it's a victory! A sweet sticky one.

Day 19

One of the hardest parts about posting this blog at the beginning was the Shame I felt. I was so ashamed of my limitations. I was embarrassed to admit to the world that I cannot comfortably walk a mile. I've spent years far more capable and competent. It's been hard to admit to myself, let alone the world, than I am unable to walk far.

What I can see now, after two weeks of airing the details of my journey to walk a mile, is that my shame kept me stuck. My shame didn't cause the ill-fitting socket, nor did it cause the pain . My shame kept my mouth shut. My shame kept me from revealing who I really am. My shame kept me from reaching beyond where I was to who I want to be.

In making the goal to walk a mile, I had to take stock of where I was. I had to admit my limitations and say where I want to go. I don't care anymore how I got to the point that I couldn't comfortably walk a mile. It's simply my reality. I'm reminded of taking a road trip and losing my way. The point at which I made my goal to walk a mile was the point at which I realized I was lost and got out my map. I certainly didn't make a U-Turn, but I did change my course. I deliberately turned myself so I was going in a different direction.

Now that I've regained my bearings and have charted my new course, I don't care as much about my limitations. Instead of focusing on what I can't do, I'm paying attention to what I can do and how I'm improving.

Shame? No, not anymore. I think it's turning into pride.

Day 18

A short walk today.

I have a blister at the end of my residual limb. Each step causes searing pain up my little limb. As I was walking I reviewed my day, knowing I'll have to work until 9 pm and stand a lot at a function this evening. Standing on a blister hurts. I don't want to make this blister worse. I know when to quit, so I turned around.

So I'm inclined to ask, "What's right about this?"

The blister and it's accompanying pain gives me the opportunity to take care of myself. I've been on-the-go for over a week. There's been little "down time" in my life for ten days. I'm feeling overwhelmed. I haven't been eating as well or sleeping as much. The one positive thing I'm doing for my body is walking and exercising. Turning around this morning after three blocks was a way to honor my body where it is right now.

The other thing that's right about this is that a blister is a sign that my prosthetic leg is getting too big. Finding the correct socket fit is like shooting at a moving target, but blisters at the end of the limb typically mean it is hitting the bottom of the socket. If that's true, then I can say that my little limb is shifting shape because of my walking. And that's cool. That's physical results.

It's easy for me to whine about this. Instead I'll be proactive. I'll call my prosthetist today and make an appointment. Instead I'll focus on what I have done and how I'm seeing results. Instead I'll say, "Oh well." This isn't the end of the world. I've had blisters many times before. Giving the blister time to heal is the best thing I can do for my limb, the best thing I can do for myself.

I don't know if I'll be able to walk tomorrow. I won't know that until I put my leg on tomorrow morning. A big part of me wants to know, to plan, to have the security of knowing that I'll be following through on my commitment to walk. But the truth of the matter is that I don't know. It's OK to not know. I am OK hanging out in this gray area of the unknown for today.

Day 17

Fear was my companion on my walk this morning.

The only time I could fit a walk in today was 5:30 a.m., just eight hours after I'd finished seeing the movie The Lovely Bones with a friend. Among other things, the movie was disturbing and ignited my fear.

For the first eighteen years after my accident I was intermittently stalked by a man who had an amputee fetish. No matter if I lived in Kirkland, Seattle, or Bellingham, he found me, assumed a different persona - always someone loosely linked to my life - and called, trying to worm his way into my life. I lived in fear for many years, not knowing when he'd return.

It's been twenty years since a compassionate policeman found my stalker and put the fear of God into him. I haven't heard from him since, but the man in the movie last night, although far more disturbed and deranged than my stalker, reminded me of the ugliness in the world. I left the movie feeling a little sick to my stomach and unsafe.

I don't want to feel scared when I walk and I resent that I did this morning. I was hyper aware of my surroundings: the shadows from the bushes, the sound of cracking twigs, the squeak of a door. I took a slightly different route so I was walking on streets with better lighting. I planned how I could use my prosthetic leg as a weapon if I were attacked. I knew my screams would echo in the morning stillness and neighbors would come to my rescue.

This isn't the first time I've played out being attacked in my mind, but it's the first time in a very long time. My inability to run has always made me more aware of my vulnerability. I'm cautious of where I walk. If I ever were attacked, my body would instinctively go into Fight or Flight mode. Flight would not be an option for me so fighting is my only recourse. And I don't trust I'd do a very good job.

I've been feeling rather on top of the world with the success of my daily walk, like I'm harnessed to a large pretty balloon that is lifting me six inches off the ground. The complete abhorrence of the character in the movie last night and my fear this morning has been like a pin popping that balloon.

I know that through the course of my day I'll have positive encounters and emotions which will help erase the disturbing images of the movie and my morning walk. They'll get tucked away and my positive actions will pump air back into my balloon. There's no guarantee that I'll never be attacked but I don't want to give that fear any more energy today.

Day 16

Ever since I became a mom 13 years ago, I've worried about how my disability affects my family.

I worried when my firstborn, during his toddler years ran away from me while we were walking around the block. He just ran. Into the street. I can't run, but I can do a little hop, skip to gain speed, but still, his chubby little two year old legs were faster than mine. Screaming at him to stop just sent him into a round of giggles. As he ran down the street he turned his head with a willful "catch me if you can" look. I learned to breathe and trust - and hold his hand tight.

I didn't like the attention I received from all the children at the playground in the summertime when my son was young. I wore shorts, never one afraid of exposing my leg, and was the playground magnet for all the kids. My son learned the story of how I lost my leg, not mother to son, but as I told it to the myriad of children wondering "what happened?" I learned to set boundaries.

When my kids were 3 and 6, I developed a fat foot. Blood pooled in my foot making it swell like a little balloon; it was very uncomfortable. I had to sit a lot for a few summers when the heat was extreme instead of jumping in the sprinkler with my kids. I learned to be creative and invented a game we could play. I was the woman at the soda shop and they were the waiters getting me milkshakes and cakes and cookies - all on the other side of the sprinkler. Peals of laughter issued forth as they ran to and fro under the rainbow of water delivering my goodies to me as I sat on my "throne".

More than I care to admit, I've said, "I'm done. I can't do anymore." I've learned to care for my body even when my heart wants to continue.

When I went to Mountain School, an experiential camp in the North Cascades, with my son's class few years ago, I didn't know if I would be able to keep up. I let the teacher know I could help with everything but the hikes. I did hike, in large thanks to my son who was there with me, every step of the way offering a hand as we climbed and descended the hills. I learned to accept the selfless help from my growing son with a full heart.

My husband doesn't have a wife who can casually take a hike with him or ride a bike downtown with him. He's more OK with it than I am.

But over the past few weeks something simple and beautiful has happened. I'm not just taking a walk to increase my stamina. Nearly every day, Mark accompanies me on my walk. Twenty to thirty minutes of uninterrupted time with my husband to catch up on our days. there's something quintessentially romantic about an elderly couple walking hand in hand talking about something or nothing at all. When I walk with Mark this image comes up. I hope I'm setting the stage for being able to take hand-in-hand walks with him when we're old.

Sometimes the kids come walking as well. Walking is kind of like driving in the car. There's not the intensity of sitting across a table talking to each other. Conversation can be casual or in depth. Walking in the dark makes the conversation feel even more intimate. When I walk with my son and daughter I get more in depth answers to the question, "How was your day?" More than just, "Fine." comes. And I love it.

The rewards of my daily walk are rippling out into more areas of life than I expected. Walking with my family, casually, lovingly, is one of the best.
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Day 15

My life is fairly ruled by the clock. There is little I do that is not monitored by time. Even my creative endeavors are limited to the few hours here or there that I fit in between my other responsibilities. I like to be efficient with my time so I am a multi-tasker. I find no glory in chores that require being done over and over again like washing dishes or doing the laundry. I think of all the other things I could be doing with my time.

I do relax, but there's a time limit to it. There's a To Do list to get done and one of my greatest joys is crossing things from my list. Accomplishments mean a great deal to me and time gives me the opportunity to do them.

I cannot bring this mentality to my walks. Since I received this new leg, I have become a slow walker. I prefer to walk fast because the momentum carries the weight of my phttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8080352370324814050rosthetic leg, but I learned early in this "mile walk" endeavor that walking slower alleviates some of my pain. When my family joins me in my walk, I'm occasionally left behind; their normal gate is still too fast for me. In order to walk my current route, I have to give myself a half an hour. Able-bodied people could walk that in fifteen minutes. Think of the things I could be doing with that extra fifteen minutes!

I can be resentful. I can be angry. I can be whiny. And I can also be accepting. It's my choice.

So I ask myself, "What's right about walking slowly?" The answers are plentiful. I get to spend a half an hour outside instead of just fifteen minutes. I get to notice the buds swelling on the bushes. I get to bathe in the moonlight for a little longer. I am reminded of my backpacking trips in my twenties. Especially with a full backpack on, I was a slow hiker. And, like then, I get to notice more, like the bulbs poking their heads out of the earth. I get to linger longer near the house with the intensely fragrant Daphne Adora. I get to watch the birds in the trees sing their song.

I find it nice to give myself a break from the clock and enjoy the here and now. It's my choice. And I choose to look at what's right about SLOW.

Day 14

Part of the reason I haven't exercised in so long, aside from the challenge of getting a new leg made, is that I'm very good at rationalizing. "Oh, it's raining, I can't go for a walk now." Or "I had a hard day at work." Or "I need to do laundry and the dishes." You get the idea.

Well, today I desperately wanted to rationalize why I didn't need to walk. I have one of the best rationalizations in the book: I was gone over 12 hours to attend a funeral. There was lots of driving, lots of transitions and lots of emotions. For the last hour of the drive home, I tried to settle into why I don't need to walk tonight: I'm exhausted. I'm spent. I need to relax. I deserve to relax. We need to get the kids to bed.

But tonight I couldn't buy into the rationalizations. Tonight they didn't stick it. Tonight I knew that I actually had it in me to take a walk. And my intuition told me it would even be good for me - on every level - if I did.

So, like the mighty hiker-in-training that I am, I took my walk. The moon's bright glow bathed me in calmness. The crisp air cleansed me of the difficulties of the day. I am grateful for the ability to take this walk. I am proud of myself for keeping this commitment to myself.

And I am rationalizing that push-ups and my physical therapy exercises will have to wait until tomorrow. In my book, 10:30 is a silly time to exercise.