Sauntering

Henry David Thoreau, in his essay titled, Walking, explained that the word Saunter comes "from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la Sainte Terre," to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, "there goes a Sainte-Terre," a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.

I like to think of myself as a saunterer, even though my image of someone who saunters is more of a meanderer than I. When I go for my daily walk, I have a goal to walk a mile and while it's not to the Holy Land, I find that I do travel to the holy land of my heart. I may be walking with my husband and talking about the kids or our respective days or I may be walking alone, listening to my "spirit" music on my Ipod. It doesn't really matter. Getting outside for a walk connects me to nature, the changing seasons, my husband, and myself. Walking keeps me in touch with my body that changes daily.

For years I looked outside myself for that which is Holy. If age has taught me anything, it's the understanding that the Holy exists as much within me as it does outside of me. I experience holiness in the quiet solitude of my morning coffee as much as I do sitting next to the ocean. And now, as I walk every day, I find my inner experience is every bit as holy as the blooming of the lilacs.

And, like the saunterers in the Middle Ages, I, too, am asking for money. But not for myself. Money so that others may have the experience of finding their own Holy moments as they walk through life.

Such a Deal

$300.
How can I NOT raise money for this organization when they can make a leg for $300?

Thirty two years ago, just after my accident, my first prosthetic leg cost about $15,000.00. Though insurance covered the bill, I couldn't help but compare the cost of my new leg to the cost of my new car just a few years later: $18,000.00. It wasn't a fancy car, but it certainly wasn't a clunker, either. I had that car for eight years and loved it.

Every four or five years I have a new prosthetic leg made. Changes in my body and worn out parts both dictate when it's time to be fitted for a new leg. With each new leg there are new products on the market to consider: feet, knees, and sockets. Until recently, I have usually picked middle of the road parts; I wanted reliability and function mixed with a little bit of the state-of-the-art technology, like a Honda.

With my most recent leg I decided to go for the gusto and get the Mercedes of all knees. I am now walking on (a chorus of angels, please) the "C-Leg". This knee is amazing. They say it feels like getting your leg back again. It doesn't, but it does allow me to walk down stairs like a two-legged person. It allows me to walk across uneven ground, like on grass or a dirt path, with full confidence that I won't fall. The knee does so much of the work for me, making sure it doesn't buckle from underneath me. I plug my leg in every night to re-charge the internal battery. The leg has a sensor which reads, about 50 times a second, where I'm putting my weight and adjusts the knee accordingly. And the leg rotates at the ankle, which may not sound like much, but to stand still and twist my body without torque on my back is a huge deal.

But there is a price for this technology. The leg I'm walking on now costs $50,000.00. Most insurance companies cover the C-Leg because of its ability to reduce falls (and any associated hospital bills as a result), and mine was no exception.

When I heard that the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation makes each of their legs for $300 I wondered how they do it. I wondered how shoddy these legs are. I wondered how comfortable they can possibly be for a mere $300. I saw one of these legs a few weeks ago when I was at the POF office in Seattle. The leg, typical of the many legs made for people in Vietnam or Sierra Leone was amazing. The knee is a spring, the foot is a basic rubber foot, but sturdy and tough, which is important in countries where people often go barefoot. The socket looked much like mine; they are made in the same way as mine and great care is taken to ensure that they fit properly. The leg was lightweight which keeps it comfortable and the rest of one's body aligned properly.

POF doesn't make the legs, they send volunteer prosthetists to teach people who live in these countries how to make them. Folks in these countries even manufacture the parts, keeping the costs low. But more importantly, it keeps the prosthetic industry in these countries sustainable.

I know that the leg I walk on is vastly different than the legs made for folks in developing countries. I know I come from such privilege. Everything about my world is so different than that of someone in rural Vietnam. But we do share the need to be upright and walking on a comfortable, functional leg.

I know a good deal when I see one. These legs are not only a good deal for the folks who wear them, but they are a good deal for the countries who make them.

Connection through Pain

I have been surprised at how much pain I have walking my daily mile. Before starting this new goal I took about ten days off from my daily walk. When I started walking again after my short hiatus, the pain returned. Sometimes the pain is the vice-grip pain I had at the beginning of January; sometimes the pain is because my skin is being rubbed raw in unmentionable places. I've been quite discouraged.

And then I think of the people I'm walking for. I think of their pain. I think of their inability to walk and the complications and pain that causes. I remember the homemade prosthetic legs I saw at the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation office, legs made in Vietnam and Sierra Leone. One was made out of pieces of bamboo held together by strips of fabric. Another was made out of metal. When I held those prosthetics I teared up with sadness and compassion. I can't believe people actually walk on something so ill-fitting. Those legs prove how desperate people are to walk. The least I can do, I think, is walk my mile, regardless of my pain.

But there's something that doesn't sit right with me about comparing myself to others and contrasting their pain with mine. What does that really accomplish but create a hierarchy of pain? Too many times I have heard people say to me, "I can't complain about my pain to you, not after what you've been through." Why not? Just because I had pain, and still do, doesn't mean others can't experience pain - and even whine about it. I think of pain as a multi-faceted crystal. Though the inside of the crystal doesn't change, how we view the pain changes, depending on which facet we're looking through. My pain doesn't negate anyone else's pain, nor does it in any way lessen their pain. Do does the pain of an amputee in Vietnam reduce my pain on my daily walk? No, it doesn't.

What does happen, though, when I think of the amputees I'm walking for, is that I am encouraged and strengthened when I think of them. I know that somewhere, deep within their soul, they find a way to endure and continue on through their pain because, most likely, they simply have to. When I think of their ability to walk through their pain I feel like I'm tapping into the vibrational strength their courage sends out into the universe. I don't feel a separation from them, which comparing and contrasting causes. Rather, I feel a connection with them, a bond. We share the experience of amputee pain. Our daily lives may be entirely different from each other, but we share the bond of our pain.

So when I walk, when I feel pain, when I think of the amputees I'm walking for, I'm calling on their strength, I'm connecting with their courage. And in that connection, my step becomes a little lighter.

100 Miles, 100 Days, 100 Legs!

I want to announce my new goal: I am walking one hundred miles. I’ll take a hundred days to do it, but I’m walking one mile a day for one hundred days. I’m doing this to raise $30,000.00, enough money for the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation to provide one hundred prosthetic legs for people in developing countries.

A mile a day might not sound like much, but for those of you who have followed my journey since January, you know that I couldn’t even walk around the block at the beginning of the year. My goal three months ago was to be able to walk a mile by the end of seven weeks. Well, I surpassed that goal and am feeling the freedom and expansiveness that only comes from a life of mobility. Now walking a mile is my daily goal.

After completing my first goal, I wanted to continue walking but, more importantly, I wanted to get outside myself and support other amputees to feel some of the same freedom and joy that I feel. I saw an article about the Prosthetic Outreach Foundation and their work in Haiti after their devastating earthquake. The POF works in developing countries to teach local people how to manufacture parts for prosthetic legs and how to make the legs themselves. They teach self-reliance. The stories of the individuals who have benefited from their help are heart-wrenching. And while I cannot pretend to relate to a man whose leg was cut off by a machete in a war-torn country, I can relate to his joy at having a leg that provides him the mobility and freedom to open up his world again.

The ability to walk is a basic human need, especially for folks in developing countries where walking is directly related to one's ability to earn a living or go to school. Stories abound at the POF about people who are able to rejoin their communities because of their ability to walk again.

I want to help 100 people experience the joy that I feel. I want to help 100 people open up their world again. And I’d love it if you could help me. No amount is too small. Each leg costs only $300 so every little bit adds up quickly.

I'll be blogging periodically about my goal. I'd love for you to follow my next journey.

There’s a Donate button at the top of my blog that will take you directly to my fund-raising page for the Prosthetic Outreach Foundation. Thank you so much for stepping up and supporting one hundred people to regain their mobility.

Moving On

It's been nearly a week since I reached my goal, finished my course, and celebrated at a fun Gala. The day after the Gala I gave myself permission to skip my walk. After all, I deserved it, didn't I?
What I discovered is that I don't want to stop walking. It means a lot to me to get outside everyday and loosen up my joints. So Mark and I took a lovely walk down to the beach.

I've been pondering my next goal and I don't know exactly what I'm doing yet. What I want to do still needs a plan.

You see I love working on myself. It gives me great joy to learn and grow. Ever since I lost my leg, I knew that I had to wring positive experiences from this situation to make it all worth it. Nine months after the accident, as I was walking on my college campus, I played the three wishes game: If I had three wishes, what would I ask for? The first thing that popped into my head was, "I want my leg back." No sooner had I formed the thought than another one formed around it, smothering it with wisdom. "No, you can't ask for your leg back. This is a life long gig. You're going to learn from this." Ever since then, I have. I've learned from being active in my twenties and finding my physical limits; I've learned from accepting; I've learned from the man who hit me and forgiving him, forgiving myself; I learned about pain and transcendence. The list goes on.

As you know, I'm turning 50 in a few weeks. I'm taking this very seriously. I see myself entering a time in life when I have the resources to give back to my world. Not necessarily financial resources, but experience, wisdom, and time. And I want my leg to be more than life lessons. Not that a life lessons aren't enough. They are. I just want more.

So I think there's a way to walk and somehow help others. That's the bones of my plan. I'll flesh it all out this week.

Stay tuned.

Day 48

Today is the last day of my goal. Today my program ends. I have been taking a series of self-empowerment workshops through Excellence Northwest. Each workshop builds upon the last, ending with The Practice, the workshop I'm currently finishing. In early January, at the beginning of The Practice, each of us had to declare a Big Hairy Audacious Goal, something we wanted to accomplish in seven weeks. It all culminates tomorrow night at the Gala - a grand party where we all get to profess what we've accomplished.

One of my biggest accomplishments has been reconnecting with my body. Ever since I became an amputee 32 years ago, I have never walked everyday for 48 days in a row. I've been physical in many ways, but always for shorter spurts of time. Walking everyday has given me the opportunity to settle into my body again, accept where it is, and make choices about where I want it to be. In ways my daily walk for seven weeks has been more empowering than sky diving, skiing or any of the other activities I've done. I can still surprise myself.

Reconnecting with my body has been like rekindling the flame with an old lover. It's been very familiar, yet new at the same time. There has been a level of comfort involved, but a new trust that needed to be built. In recommitting to my body, I am recommitting to my whole self and to my future.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me in this goal by reading my blog and through your kind and encouraging words.

Though The Practice may be finished, though I may have achieved my Big Hairy Audacious Goal, this isn't over. In fact, I feel like I've just begun. Come back to my blog, which I will now post to twice a week, and see what my next challenge will be.

Day 47

Body image.

Big topic. One I've been wanting to write about for the last 47 days, but haven't known what size bite to chew off. I could write about women and body image in general, but that's only part of my story. Body image for me has been a constatntly changing landscape serving as a backdrop to whatever story I've been living.

In high school, I was hyper aware of every one of my imperfections: thunder thigh, big gut, small chest and red hair. I walked the crowded high school hallways with my books pinned against my chest, my arms crossed tightly across them, hiding myself from the glares, not only of boys, but other girls.

After I lost my leg, I knew that my leg, or lack of it, had the potential to turn men away from me. I knew I would be disgusting to some men. I was so thankful that my prosthetic leg covered up my residual limb so that nobody needed to see it. When I went swimming I quickly took off my leg as close to the pool as possible, jumped to the pool and slide in quietly. I tried to avoid stares but, having been on the other side, knew that people couldn't help themselves. Of course they would sneak a peak. I would, too.

What was so hard is that I never knew why people were looking at me. In college, walking down the street, if a guy was looking at me I'd take it as a compliment, until I realized he was staring at my limp or my leg. Having such a visible difference was confusing for me as a young woman. I didn't know whether I was being looked at as pretty or freakish.

In my twenties I felt strong. I was involved in amputee soccer and skiing and was using my body a lot. I almost didn't care what people thought of me because I was in love with what I was doing. I knew, with each new activity I did, that I came close to not being to do that activity at all. Had the car hit me a few inches higher, I could have been paralyzed. Had the car hit me with a little more force, I could have lost my other leg. The activities I did were made even sweeter by the fact that I nearly lost the ability to do them at all.

When I became a mom I started to feel like what I heard many other women talk about in terms of their body image: the sadness of my sagging breasts, the tummy that wouldn't go away, the pregnancy weight that stuck like glue to my butt, and all the other physical shifts that happen from pregnancy and childbirth. I felt like a dowdy mom. In this respect I felt average, one of the gang. I took comfort in this; it was the first time since high school that I could comisserate with friends on the same playing field.

And now? I revisit landscapes from my past,depending on the story of the day. Some days I still walk through life trying to hide myself. Some days I feel on top of the world, able to do anything, proud of and thankful for my body. As I age, the frumpiness lingers, but I'm trying to find a new perspective in how I value and admire an aging body. When I look at other women my age or older I mostly see beautiful people. Maybe not in the classic sense or the Hollywood sense. I see women who have lived life and who's bodies tell the story.

A few years ago I went to the Korean day spa in Lynnwood. My friend and I first visited all the dry sauna rooms in which we wore our robes. After we had gotten good and hot, we went to the hot tub room. I knew I'd have to take my prosthetic leg off and hop around soI mentally prepared myself for being naked in front of other women. I didn't want them to look at me but I quickly realized that was unrealistic. We were all looking at each other. Out of the corners of our eyes, as we threw our head back in laughter as we chatted with our friends. We looked. And what I saw were amazing bodies. Some large, some skinny, some inbetween. But each body had a story, many stories. A scar on a breast, a tattoo on a hip, a welt on a arm, wrinkles all over a face. Those bodies were, to me, far more beautiful than anything I could see in the movies. And my naked body, with half of my leg missing, had it's own story. That's all. Just a story. But I'm sure some of those other women could see beauty in my story just as I saw beauty in theirs.

I think that was just a small bite.

Day 46

When I was young I celebrated Lent. I usually gave something up like candy or, when I was older, swearing. I remember hearing that by changing behavior for the forty days, the length of the Lenten season, our habits change. I feel like I've developed a new habit in walking these past 46 days.

It's not a question anymore whether I'll walk or not. My daily walk has become a part of the family routine like taking out the garbage and eating dinner together. My husband asks when I'll fit it in each day to see if he can come with me. When I invited Tessa to come on my walk tonight she said, "Can I go tomorrow night instead? It's raining tonight." Sure, I said, both of us knowing a walk is in my future tomorrow.

I like the comfort of knowing I'm using my body everyday. I kind of even understand why people exercise as a way to relieve stress. I find that I'm less tense after a walk, more relaxed. Even if I'm grumbly about an issue when I first start out, by the time I get home, I've usually thought it through.

Now that I've met two goals, first my mile walk, then my two mile walk, well the FOUR mile hike (yes, I'm still proud of myself), I'm wondering what to strive for now. I like having something to work towards. I want the next one to be a stretch. Now that I know my body better, I know how much more I can ask of her. I'll ponder this over the next few days.

Day 45

A month from today I turn "50"! I can't wait.

As I said before, I've always wanted to be an old lady; turning 50 feels like I'm stepping onto that path. Just dipping my toes into the waters. I'll go swimming in the Old Lady lake later, but soon I'll just test the waters.

Being young at heart is important to me and so I am returning to my daring youth and taking my family to Whistler for my birthday so we can all ride the zip line. I'm exhilarated just thinking about it. And terrified. I can't imagine having to step off the platform and into the abyss.

When I was in my twenties I went skydiving two times. Once with a friend and again about a year later with a group of other amputees. The first time was a challenge, the second time was terrifying. When it was time to step out of the plan and onto a little tiny step, I looked down (the wrong thing to do) and said, "I can't do it." The plane circled around, but I was given a warning: Say no again and we'll fly you back to earth. I hadn't paid good money for a short plane ride, so I made myself step out of the plane and onto the tiny little step. When they told me to let go, I did. I spread my arms and counted to ten and then pulled the cord. I was safe. I was floating. I was flying, or as close as I could in human form.

There's something about taking these risks that reminds me of not only my mortality, but also of my spirit. The courage to step into my fear and right through it, trusting that I will be OK, is more exciting than floating through the air. Knowing that I have the fortitude and the guts carries me through the more mundane parts of life. The memory of those experiences stay with me, reminding me that I am a risk-taker.

After I had children, taking these kinds of risks wasn't worth it to me. My dad drowned when I was 13 years old and I was unwilling to do anything that put my life at risk and leave my children without a mother.

My kids are older now and I can do the zip line with them. I can share my joy, my screams, and my Hot Damns with them. I can show them how fun risk can be.

I want to step off the zip line platform on the day I turn 50 and remind myself that I have the courage to step into every day of my life. I want to rekindle that younger part of myself that was willing to fly instead of take the safe way back to earth.

Some may call this a mid-life crisis, the desire to return to my youth. I call it mid-life clarity. Finding out, again, that living life to it's fullest is what's important.

Day 44

When I woke up this morning and walked to the kitchen to make my coffee, I could feel almost every muscle in my long leg and in my butt. Amazing. With the all the skiing, hiking, and soccer I did in my twenties, you'd think I'd have discovered my butt muscles before, but I hadn't.

Maybe it's because my backside had never been so jiggly as it's gotten lately. Maybe because I went from losing my leg to exercising whenever I used it. Maybe I just wasn't as tuned in to my body in my twenties. But I was this morning and I have to say that having buns of steel is a seductive prize. I wouldn't set out with that as my goal, but if it is a side benefit, I'll take it.