I was first taken by what Suleika said in Frida’s house: that I’m going to say again because it’s the truest thing I know, the thing I remind myself of every day: living means learning to hold the astonishingly beautiful and unbearably hard things in the same palm. Reading this and then the prompt of the first time I felt a shift in my body that I remember in this moment is, growing older, and seeing my body’s skin sag, my breasts dropping, 5replacement surgeries, one cataract surgery--I’m grateful-I’m alive! I can walk! I can work! I can dance! I can see! Having to wear hearing aids-I can communicate! Seeing how strong my body is and watching those ads on “ how to look younger and be thinner--I see it’s a joke on us because we’re not allowed to accept our humanity of aging, getting sick, losing body parts that once served us, but honoring that I’m still here! A loving, breathing, living and very much alive human being! My body is a blessing to me🙏
Perfectly said Sherri. This resonates with me as I’m also aging. Cataracts have been done. New knees next. Probably other joints too. I love everything you said.
Laurie so very well stated!! Sherri love your reflection .. and as my joints ache more and I embrace all that aging is I find it interesting, as you both say, that we are surrounded by narratives that push us to "look young" yet what we should embrace is our "feeling of joy" and having to balance that some days with the "aches, pains and need for just being" and listening to our bodies. Appreciate this community and reflections .. and yes we are still kickin!! ;o)
How curious, to be 75, and experiencing this bodiliness in such a reassured way. I have been playing Native American style flutes for years. Visiting hospitals and playing for patients and staff. Recently I was gifted a Japanese bamboo Shakuhachi 2.1 flute. Though I have slowly been learning to play a Shakuhachi 1.8(the length of the flute and size of the bore) and actually creating sounds, this new size flute brought me back to “no sound”. Not one sound! Except my breath swooshing down the flute. The amazing experience of a larger flute requiring a full, yet very gentle breath to find sound. I am learning to feel deep breathing in my stomach, a tender, gentle, relaxed breath into the flute, and slowly, ever so slowly, a beautiful sound. This is becoming my most challenging, satisfying form of meditation. Breathing deeply into an expanding stomach, a respectful, gentle release of breath. No room for distracting thoughts and concerns. I become breath itself, and then, now more often, a rich sound. That is all I become, and it is enough. 🏮
David, I so appreciate this as I started playing the Native American style flute last year, and struggled in keeping my breath consistent and long enough, so put it aside. However, as you write it is truly a practice in patience and the way you describe the "breathing" is so true. You have now inspired me to pick up the flute again, and to continue to "practice" and yes "no room for distracting thoughts". Blessings
Nell Diamond. Not Neil Diamond. I need glasses. I really thought I was going to read an essay from Neil Diamond, which I thought was very cool and unexpected! I had to reread twice and then scrutinize the name again. Anyway, thank you for this post 😬 I’m going to get some coffee and start over!
I am amazed by this old body!! I am thankful it works as well as it does. Hearing aids, Tylenol, yoga and walking; these things help me keep going. My biggest job is caregiver for my husband of 54 years whose memory is fragmented and slowly disappearing. But our bodies and hearts still dance in the kitchen and enjoy the time we have. Old bodies are beautiful, indeed.
I used to feel smug about my healthy lifestyle. I looked much younger than my 43 years, was skinny AF and believed my diet of minimally processed foods, my exercise routines, and meditation practice would help me to live well into my 90s. This is horribly uncompassionate, but I felt I was in a perpetual health and beauty contest with my fellow humans. I compared myself to others and believed I was winning.
Then, a month after I turned 44 I was in the hospital post abdominal surgery. The nurses took my bandages off to inspect my incision. Anxious to see what had happened to my body, I looked down and saw 12-inch, red, swollen, gash being held together by metal staples. It ran down the middle of my torso, twisted around my belly button and ended at the base of my pubic bone. I felt disgusted, vulnerable and fascinated all at the same time. When the gynecologic oncology surgeon told me he had removed two tumors the size of cantaloupes I blurted out “Holy Shit!” and started laughing. You wouldn't have been able to tell the day before that I had all that growing in me. I looked like I was just bloated.
It’s been over two years, several cancer treatments, and a significant weight gain since the surgery. I’m not smug about my body anymore. Placing myself or anyone else into a never-ending health and beauty contest seems cruel. But I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I think society is always trying to shove us into one.
I’ve shifted from arrogance to acceptance. It is not my fault I have cancer. It’s not my fault I’m growing older. It’s not my fault my metabolism has slowed down. It’s not my fault that my joints ache or that I sometimes need to rest after doing simple daily activities. It’s not my fault I’m going to die.
Heather - I JUST wrote in my journal about how breast cancer, which I’m still being treated for, has shifted my thinking. I was very much like you & it has been cancer that has shifted me as well. Your last paragraph is so profound. Thank you.
I am young like you Suleika. I have limitations on my body and I deal with chronic pain due to an autoimmune disease. I’ve worked out my whole life but this disease brings me to my absolute knees. Your emails teach me important lessons and help me cope with my body. It’s good to hear that I too can neglect new years aspirations for perfection. Instead, I want to try to focus on healing and enjoying what I can. Thank you Suleika!
My body, my beautiful and strong body got me through two months on a ventilator. It, and I, survived; damaged, but alive. I can’t walk the distances I used to. I look at things now in distances. Will my breath hold out. Airports now are to be traveled in wheelchairs- the distances to long for my lungs. Everything, everywhere is measured in “will my lungs allow this”, but travel I do. While I may not be as mobile at nearly 71, I am alive. I celebrate and I do as much as I can on my two feet, or in a wheelchair. With or without being tied to a little machine that can give my lungs a bit more oxygen when my lungs crave it. I fully intend to enjoy the winter of my life and to push this damaged body as far as she will go. Life is both hard and beautiful at the same time, just like my body is old and damaged and beautiful and strong at the same time.
The first time that I felt a shift with my body-a first of many was about about at ten or eleven. I noticed my hairs growing, and breasts. Somehow, given the times I did not like this- the reason was that I wanted to keep playing basketball. Actually, I noticed my first period playing basketball and I was mad- and wanted the game to continue-I loved Basketball. Some how I intuited the preconceived conception of growing girlhood. I don'e know why, my mother was dead-I guess I did not like what I saw (this was long ago).. I wanted to play basketball.
"living means learning to hold the astonishingly beautiful and unbearably hard things in the same palm" . . . I feel like this is a definition of so much of my life. There have been many times I have experienced this concept, these experiences would fill a journal. The one situation that popped into my mind after reading Suleika's and Nell's prompts is our family trip to Europe in 2014. My three daughters and I flew into Frankfurt where we met my sister and her husband (they were in the Air Force at that time, living in Landstuhl). The excitement was high; we all locked arms laughing and practically skipping for sheer joy the thought of spending Christmas and New Years in the most amazing places. My brother-in-law insisted we walk everywhere so that we could be fully immersed in the experience of the bustling holiday crowds, the medieval streets and architecture, the marketplaces, museums, churches and bridges - he didn't want us to miss anything. I have been overweight all my life; dieting often seems like a perpetual state of being for me. At the same time I loved to hike, bike, kayak, swim, ride horses, play tennis, the list goes on. I prided myself on my strength and physical ability. Unbeknownst to me, I was going to be knocked flat on my very round behind this trip. We proceeded to march through Heidelberg and Rothenberg, eating German sausage, drinking German beer and running our hands along ancient walls. As we made our way to Paris, I began to struggle keeping up with everyone. I could hear my family's whisperings "being overweight all these years has finally caught up with her" as the shame and embarrassment, along with the great fear of the unknown overcame me like a dark shadow. Why was I in so much pain? Why couldn't I walk quickly and maintain the pace? What was happening? My feet hurt so much, I tried changing shoes. My warm hiking shoes were not helping. My sneakers were no good in the snow and ice. I finally settled on my old, worn paddock boots that weren't insulated but at least I could walk in them without too much discomfort. At the day's end my legs were aching. I took ibuprofen day and night to be able to keep up. My sister and my brother-in-law were wonderful hosts who provided so much for us. We enjoyed German charcuterie that covered the entire coffee table in front of the giant wood stove. We gathered around the dining room table with with their friends from far away places, enjoying raclette and plenty of wine. We went to so many amazing, magnificent places. I found myself truly holding the astonishingly beautiful and unbearable at the same time. I finally hit a wall on New Years' Eve. We were staying in Prague, and my family was gathering up their champagne and sparklers, donning their parkas and getting ready to march down to the Vltava River to watch the fireworks and bring in the New Year. I declined - I was lying in bed crying. I couldn't get up, I couldn't take another step. I felt like my body was failing me in the worst way. I begged my family to go on without me, and they did. I wanted my girls to enjoy the experience of bringing in the new year in another country, a celebration they would never forget. When I finally returned home, I discovered I had a combination of hyperparathyroidism (which threw off the balance of calcium in my body causing great muscle and bone pain) and chronic Lyme disease (which I still suffer from today). I still can't walk far and I always have some level of pain but I have learned I can be present in each moment, experience the incredible beauty of life and enjoy that beauty even though my body is uncomfortable. This human experience has turned out to be a challenge for me on many levels and at times I am bitter. But all I have to do is look at life through the lens' of my granddaughter's eyes where everything is new and exciting, or sit on a beach at sunrise to find my gratitude again, my gratitude for still being here and able to experience this world in all it's glory and wonder despite the darkness and pain that persists.
My husband loves to look at old photos on his computer; mostly pictures of me, of us, in beautiful places doing happy and exciting activities. There's me with my long, blonde, permed hair smiling broadly next to my tall, proud father. There's me in a cute, fitted, purple jacket and laced hiking boots, arms outstretched, striding joyfully through lush greenery and wildflowers in France, on one of our inn-to-inn hikes. Me wearing a pink knitted hat I made holding our infant grandson, my skin as smooth as his baby cheeks. It's hard for me to explain to Dave that rather than feel pleasure, as he does, at images of those happy times, I often turn away in profound sadness. They are a reminder of what I've lost, what two cancer diagnoses and grueling rounds of chemotherapy have taken away. That long hair is only a memory, my face and eyes are worn and sad, and I have yet to get back the fitness I once had that made hiking a big part of our lives. Every point you make in your essay, Suleika, applies to me; the disappointment, frustration, anger and sense of loss you feel are what I also feel. But like that sensation that your body had turned a corner when you got to Mexico, well, my body recently felt that way, too; an awakening of physical energy that propels me to start projects and make plans. As Nell Diamond discovered, the body is astoundingly capable of healing. I may never look at photos of the old me without some regret, but I'll try to heed the wise words of one of my nurses: Your life may never be the same, but that doesn't mean it can't be good.
“living means learning to hold the astonishingly beautiful and unbearably hard things in the same palm” this quote...I needed this today. Thank you!!! 💗💗💗
Heavy pain; heavy joy. As my friend and I used to say. The older I get the truer that saying becomes. Thank you for sharing your trip with us. The gorgeous reality of rootedness.
Think about a time that you experienced a shift in your relationship with your body. What caused this shift? Did it last?
I can recall several “shifts in my relationship with my body” during my life. The most recent, which happened about 12 years ago, was the most life threatening. Somehow, I lived. I often wonder why, considering the circumstances.
It was March, and Spring was coming gradually. It was exciting to realize that soon the birds would be singing, the grass would turn green, and the hundreds of perennials would emerge from their winter slumber. Tree buds came to life. In general, the energy of life was everywhere.
In a dry patch of ground, I started to prepare the soil for a garden. Digging, hoeing, raking and smoothing. I noticed that I became tired rather quickly and had to stop to catch my breath. My brain told me that my body was terribly out of shape. Did I really neglect myself that much over winter? I was not aware that I did. So, I was puzzled. I decided to monitor my body’s response to physical activity.
Walking upstairs wore me out, as did walking up a slight incline. Instead of improvement, my effort to do these simple things increased as the days passed. Hmmm. What was going on, I wondered. Eh, it’ll pass.
It didn’t. On Mother’s Day, my wife, Mary, and I went to an art fair at the high school – an annual event for us. A pretty big crowd was packed in a tight space. I was amazed at the number of people interested in art here in our tiny city. After visiting all the booths, we slowly made our way to the exit, and just before reaching the door, I began to diaphorese. I mentioned this to Mary who noticed I was a bit pale and sweating bullets. I told her maybe I shouldn’t go to work tomorrow.
Her nursing wisdom kicked in and she said, “Nope, we’re going to the ER”. When Mary said something, she meant it! WE WERE GOING TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM.
I remember as the car turned corners on the way, beads of sweat flew off my face from the centrifugal force and splashed on the window. I didn’t have to wait long to be seen. EKG electrodes were slapped onto my chest. I was given oxygen, and an IV was started. All these things happened at the same time within a few minutes. I thought, this is reassuring – these people obviously know what they are doing. My previous experience in the medical field told me I was in good hands. I’ll enjoy the ride!
My EKG did not show evidence of a heart attack. That’s good. Blood was drawn for evidence of cardiac enzymes, another indicator of heart attack. Negative.
My next move was to X-ray for a radioisotope test. I would be injected with a radioisotope that would light up wherever it was taken up within my body. The focus was on my lungs.
The test took about thirty minutes after everything was setup. Bingo! We had the answer: I had so many emboli in my lungs, the doctors could not count them all. It only takes one to kill you. Hmmmm. Another one of my 9 lives used up. I am guessing I have a total of nine. I have already used 5.
Treatment was started with heparin – a blood thinner – to dissolve the clots in my lungs. I stayed in the hospital for a week, and during that time I had an ultrasound test done on my right leg. The source of the emboli was a deep vein thrombosis (DVT) from my ankle to my hip - a rather large clot!! Over time, several months, bits of it were breaking off and finding their way into my lungs. This was why I was tired after physical activity.
We don’t know the cause of the DVT. Consequently, I am on a blood thinner called Warfarin for the rest of my life. But I was lucky. I wonder if all my years of long-distance running prepared me for this. Who knows?
The first time I felt a shift in my body was in my late 50’s after years of therapy. I’ve done lots of work around the shame I felt about my body, which was understandable, after years of physical and sexual abuse by my biological father. Today, I’m usually grateful for my body and all that it can do and it’s faithfulness to me.
I was first taken by what Suleika said in Frida’s house: that I’m going to say again because it’s the truest thing I know, the thing I remind myself of every day: living means learning to hold the astonishingly beautiful and unbearably hard things in the same palm. Reading this and then the prompt of the first time I felt a shift in my body that I remember in this moment is, growing older, and seeing my body’s skin sag, my breasts dropping, 5replacement surgeries, one cataract surgery--I’m grateful-I’m alive! I can walk! I can work! I can dance! I can see! Having to wear hearing aids-I can communicate! Seeing how strong my body is and watching those ads on “ how to look younger and be thinner--I see it’s a joke on us because we’re not allowed to accept our humanity of aging, getting sick, losing body parts that once served us, but honoring that I’m still here! A loving, breathing, living and very much alive human being! My body is a blessing to me🙏
Perfectly said Sherri. This resonates with me as I’m also aging. Cataracts have been done. New knees next. Probably other joints too. I love everything you said.
Laurie good luck with the knees. Yes Laurie we’re still “kickin it”! Maybe not the same way but we’re doing it❤️
Laurie so very well stated!! Sherri love your reflection .. and as my joints ache more and I embrace all that aging is I find it interesting, as you both say, that we are surrounded by narratives that push us to "look young" yet what we should embrace is our "feeling of joy" and having to balance that some days with the "aches, pains and need for just being" and listening to our bodies. Appreciate this community and reflections .. and yes we are still kickin!! ;o)
How curious, to be 75, and experiencing this bodiliness in such a reassured way. I have been playing Native American style flutes for years. Visiting hospitals and playing for patients and staff. Recently I was gifted a Japanese bamboo Shakuhachi 2.1 flute. Though I have slowly been learning to play a Shakuhachi 1.8(the length of the flute and size of the bore) and actually creating sounds, this new size flute brought me back to “no sound”. Not one sound! Except my breath swooshing down the flute. The amazing experience of a larger flute requiring a full, yet very gentle breath to find sound. I am learning to feel deep breathing in my stomach, a tender, gentle, relaxed breath into the flute, and slowly, ever so slowly, a beautiful sound. This is becoming my most challenging, satisfying form of meditation. Breathing deeply into an expanding stomach, a respectful, gentle release of breath. No room for distracting thoughts and concerns. I become breath itself, and then, now more often, a rich sound. That is all I become, and it is enough. 🏮
David, I so appreciate this as I started playing the Native American style flute last year, and struggled in keeping my breath consistent and long enough, so put it aside. However, as you write it is truly a practice in patience and the way you describe the "breathing" is so true. You have now inspired me to pick up the flute again, and to continue to "practice" and yes "no room for distracting thoughts". Blessings
Nell Diamond. Not Neil Diamond. I need glasses. I really thought I was going to read an essay from Neil Diamond, which I thought was very cool and unexpected! I had to reread twice and then scrutinize the name again. Anyway, thank you for this post 😬 I’m going to get some coffee and start over!
me too Sherry i thought she said NEIL Diamond I was very excited for he and I are the same age lol
I did, too!
Me too!
Oh holy cow. Thank you, eyes that deceive me, and Sherry who brings me vision, for the good laugh.
me too xo
😂
I am amazed by this old body!! I am thankful it works as well as it does. Hearing aids, Tylenol, yoga and walking; these things help me keep going. My biggest job is caregiver for my husband of 54 years whose memory is fragmented and slowly disappearing. But our bodies and hearts still dance in the kitchen and enjoy the time we have. Old bodies are beautiful, indeed.
Caregivers rock!! xoxo
It's time to honor our bodies where they are.
And for what they have done
and for what they will continue to do.
Thank you for the gentle reminder.
It's much appreciated. Namaste
I used to feel smug about my healthy lifestyle. I looked much younger than my 43 years, was skinny AF and believed my diet of minimally processed foods, my exercise routines, and meditation practice would help me to live well into my 90s. This is horribly uncompassionate, but I felt I was in a perpetual health and beauty contest with my fellow humans. I compared myself to others and believed I was winning.
Then, a month after I turned 44 I was in the hospital post abdominal surgery. The nurses took my bandages off to inspect my incision. Anxious to see what had happened to my body, I looked down and saw 12-inch, red, swollen, gash being held together by metal staples. It ran down the middle of my torso, twisted around my belly button and ended at the base of my pubic bone. I felt disgusted, vulnerable and fascinated all at the same time. When the gynecologic oncology surgeon told me he had removed two tumors the size of cantaloupes I blurted out “Holy Shit!” and started laughing. You wouldn't have been able to tell the day before that I had all that growing in me. I looked like I was just bloated.
It’s been over two years, several cancer treatments, and a significant weight gain since the surgery. I’m not smug about my body anymore. Placing myself or anyone else into a never-ending health and beauty contest seems cruel. But I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I think society is always trying to shove us into one.
I’ve shifted from arrogance to acceptance. It is not my fault I have cancer. It’s not my fault I’m growing older. It’s not my fault my metabolism has slowed down. It’s not my fault that my joints ache or that I sometimes need to rest after doing simple daily activities. It’s not my fault I’m going to die.
Heather - I JUST wrote in my journal about how breast cancer, which I’m still being treated for, has shifted my thinking. I was very much like you & it has been cancer that has shifted me as well. Your last paragraph is so profound. Thank you.
This resonates with me, an ovarian cancer survivor still in treatment.
❤️
I am young like you Suleika. I have limitations on my body and I deal with chronic pain due to an autoimmune disease. I’ve worked out my whole life but this disease brings me to my absolute knees. Your emails teach me important lessons and help me cope with my body. It’s good to hear that I too can neglect new years aspirations for perfection. Instead, I want to try to focus on healing and enjoying what I can. Thank you Suleika!
Focusing on pleasure and enjoyment is so important in those moments of pain, sending you strength ✨
Thank you for your kind words.
My body, my beautiful and strong body got me through two months on a ventilator. It, and I, survived; damaged, but alive. I can’t walk the distances I used to. I look at things now in distances. Will my breath hold out. Airports now are to be traveled in wheelchairs- the distances to long for my lungs. Everything, everywhere is measured in “will my lungs allow this”, but travel I do. While I may not be as mobile at nearly 71, I am alive. I celebrate and I do as much as I can on my two feet, or in a wheelchair. With or without being tied to a little machine that can give my lungs a bit more oxygen when my lungs crave it. I fully intend to enjoy the winter of my life and to push this damaged body as far as she will go. Life is both hard and beautiful at the same time, just like my body is old and damaged and beautiful and strong at the same time.
The first time that I felt a shift with my body-a first of many was about about at ten or eleven. I noticed my hairs growing, and breasts. Somehow, given the times I did not like this- the reason was that I wanted to keep playing basketball. Actually, I noticed my first period playing basketball and I was mad- and wanted the game to continue-I loved Basketball. Some how I intuited the preconceived conception of growing girlhood. I don'e know why, my mother was dead-I guess I did not like what I saw (this was long ago).. I wanted to play basketball.
"living means learning to hold the astonishingly beautiful and unbearably hard things in the same palm" . . . I feel like this is a definition of so much of my life. There have been many times I have experienced this concept, these experiences would fill a journal. The one situation that popped into my mind after reading Suleika's and Nell's prompts is our family trip to Europe in 2014. My three daughters and I flew into Frankfurt where we met my sister and her husband (they were in the Air Force at that time, living in Landstuhl). The excitement was high; we all locked arms laughing and practically skipping for sheer joy the thought of spending Christmas and New Years in the most amazing places. My brother-in-law insisted we walk everywhere so that we could be fully immersed in the experience of the bustling holiday crowds, the medieval streets and architecture, the marketplaces, museums, churches and bridges - he didn't want us to miss anything. I have been overweight all my life; dieting often seems like a perpetual state of being for me. At the same time I loved to hike, bike, kayak, swim, ride horses, play tennis, the list goes on. I prided myself on my strength and physical ability. Unbeknownst to me, I was going to be knocked flat on my very round behind this trip. We proceeded to march through Heidelberg and Rothenberg, eating German sausage, drinking German beer and running our hands along ancient walls. As we made our way to Paris, I began to struggle keeping up with everyone. I could hear my family's whisperings "being overweight all these years has finally caught up with her" as the shame and embarrassment, along with the great fear of the unknown overcame me like a dark shadow. Why was I in so much pain? Why couldn't I walk quickly and maintain the pace? What was happening? My feet hurt so much, I tried changing shoes. My warm hiking shoes were not helping. My sneakers were no good in the snow and ice. I finally settled on my old, worn paddock boots that weren't insulated but at least I could walk in them without too much discomfort. At the day's end my legs were aching. I took ibuprofen day and night to be able to keep up. My sister and my brother-in-law were wonderful hosts who provided so much for us. We enjoyed German charcuterie that covered the entire coffee table in front of the giant wood stove. We gathered around the dining room table with with their friends from far away places, enjoying raclette and plenty of wine. We went to so many amazing, magnificent places. I found myself truly holding the astonishingly beautiful and unbearable at the same time. I finally hit a wall on New Years' Eve. We were staying in Prague, and my family was gathering up their champagne and sparklers, donning their parkas and getting ready to march down to the Vltava River to watch the fireworks and bring in the New Year. I declined - I was lying in bed crying. I couldn't get up, I couldn't take another step. I felt like my body was failing me in the worst way. I begged my family to go on without me, and they did. I wanted my girls to enjoy the experience of bringing in the new year in another country, a celebration they would never forget. When I finally returned home, I discovered I had a combination of hyperparathyroidism (which threw off the balance of calcium in my body causing great muscle and bone pain) and chronic Lyme disease (which I still suffer from today). I still can't walk far and I always have some level of pain but I have learned I can be present in each moment, experience the incredible beauty of life and enjoy that beauty even though my body is uncomfortable. This human experience has turned out to be a challenge for me on many levels and at times I am bitter. But all I have to do is look at life through the lens' of my granddaughter's eyes where everything is new and exciting, or sit on a beach at sunrise to find my gratitude again, my gratitude for still being here and able to experience this world in all it's glory and wonder despite the darkness and pain that persists.
That was extremely beautiful...
My husband loves to look at old photos on his computer; mostly pictures of me, of us, in beautiful places doing happy and exciting activities. There's me with my long, blonde, permed hair smiling broadly next to my tall, proud father. There's me in a cute, fitted, purple jacket and laced hiking boots, arms outstretched, striding joyfully through lush greenery and wildflowers in France, on one of our inn-to-inn hikes. Me wearing a pink knitted hat I made holding our infant grandson, my skin as smooth as his baby cheeks. It's hard for me to explain to Dave that rather than feel pleasure, as he does, at images of those happy times, I often turn away in profound sadness. They are a reminder of what I've lost, what two cancer diagnoses and grueling rounds of chemotherapy have taken away. That long hair is only a memory, my face and eyes are worn and sad, and I have yet to get back the fitness I once had that made hiking a big part of our lives. Every point you make in your essay, Suleika, applies to me; the disappointment, frustration, anger and sense of loss you feel are what I also feel. But like that sensation that your body had turned a corner when you got to Mexico, well, my body recently felt that way, too; an awakening of physical energy that propels me to start projects and make plans. As Nell Diamond discovered, the body is astoundingly capable of healing. I may never look at photos of the old me without some regret, but I'll try to heed the wise words of one of my nurses: Your life may never be the same, but that doesn't mean it can't be good.
My husband shared this poem with me after I shared Sukeika’s writings from this morning.
LET THIS DARKNESS BE A BELL TOWER
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
♥️♥️♥️
i came across this poem for the first time today. it made me think of this community too. a little synchronicity. 😉
“living means learning to hold the astonishingly beautiful and unbearably hard things in the same palm” this quote...I needed this today. Thank you!!! 💗💗💗
Heavy pain; heavy joy. As my friend and I used to say. The older I get the truer that saying becomes. Thank you for sharing your trip with us. The gorgeous reality of rootedness.
Frida! Such a light. Such a strong embodied soul.
Prompt 226
Think about a time that you experienced a shift in your relationship with your body. What caused this shift? Did it last?
I can recall several “shifts in my relationship with my body” during my life. The most recent, which happened about 12 years ago, was the most life threatening. Somehow, I lived. I often wonder why, considering the circumstances.
It was March, and Spring was coming gradually. It was exciting to realize that soon the birds would be singing, the grass would turn green, and the hundreds of perennials would emerge from their winter slumber. Tree buds came to life. In general, the energy of life was everywhere.
In a dry patch of ground, I started to prepare the soil for a garden. Digging, hoeing, raking and smoothing. I noticed that I became tired rather quickly and had to stop to catch my breath. My brain told me that my body was terribly out of shape. Did I really neglect myself that much over winter? I was not aware that I did. So, I was puzzled. I decided to monitor my body’s response to physical activity.
Walking upstairs wore me out, as did walking up a slight incline. Instead of improvement, my effort to do these simple things increased as the days passed. Hmmm. What was going on, I wondered. Eh, it’ll pass.
It didn’t. On Mother’s Day, my wife, Mary, and I went to an art fair at the high school – an annual event for us. A pretty big crowd was packed in a tight space. I was amazed at the number of people interested in art here in our tiny city. After visiting all the booths, we slowly made our way to the exit, and just before reaching the door, I began to diaphorese. I mentioned this to Mary who noticed I was a bit pale and sweating bullets. I told her maybe I shouldn’t go to work tomorrow.
Her nursing wisdom kicked in and she said, “Nope, we’re going to the ER”. When Mary said something, she meant it! WE WERE GOING TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM.
I remember as the car turned corners on the way, beads of sweat flew off my face from the centrifugal force and splashed on the window. I didn’t have to wait long to be seen. EKG electrodes were slapped onto my chest. I was given oxygen, and an IV was started. All these things happened at the same time within a few minutes. I thought, this is reassuring – these people obviously know what they are doing. My previous experience in the medical field told me I was in good hands. I’ll enjoy the ride!
My EKG did not show evidence of a heart attack. That’s good. Blood was drawn for evidence of cardiac enzymes, another indicator of heart attack. Negative.
My next move was to X-ray for a radioisotope test. I would be injected with a radioisotope that would light up wherever it was taken up within my body. The focus was on my lungs.
The test took about thirty minutes after everything was setup. Bingo! We had the answer: I had so many emboli in my lungs, the doctors could not count them all. It only takes one to kill you. Hmmmm. Another one of my 9 lives used up. I am guessing I have a total of nine. I have already used 5.
Treatment was started with heparin – a blood thinner – to dissolve the clots in my lungs. I stayed in the hospital for a week, and during that time I had an ultrasound test done on my right leg. The source of the emboli was a deep vein thrombosis (DVT) from my ankle to my hip - a rather large clot!! Over time, several months, bits of it were breaking off and finding their way into my lungs. This was why I was tired after physical activity.
We don’t know the cause of the DVT. Consequently, I am on a blood thinner called Warfarin for the rest of my life. But I was lucky. I wonder if all my years of long-distance running prepared me for this. Who knows?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFnYwfQjQaE
The first time I felt a shift in my body was in my late 50’s after years of therapy. I’ve done lots of work around the shame I felt about my body, which was understandable, after years of physical and sexual abuse by my biological father. Today, I’m usually grateful for my body and all that it can do and it’s faithfulness to me.
“its faithfulness to me” 🥹🤎
❤️