Becoming a new me
By the end of third hour today, I was already tired and drained. It was not yet 10am.
By 5pm, I had jumped through the new evaluation hoops, taught (listened to the political views of, comforted, helped, laughed with, waved to, remember the names and personalities of, challenged, supported) 100+ juniors, corresponded with and counselled more in the hallway, attended two meetings, and I'm not sure what all else. My back hurt. A lot. It could be a drop to the floor in agony sort of hurt, but it can't be that anymore. I have a life to live. It's a breathe deep, slow down, and deal with the life you're living sort of pain instead. So I went for a nice long, slow walk. Because that is the once/future me.
While I was walking, I saw a monarch butterfly. I saw a hawk. I saw a pair of heron. I heard rain on pavement and rain on water. I watched the pattern that new rain drops make when interspersed with the spreading circles of former drops. I heard an airplane. I heard cicadas. I felt the thickness of the 91 degree 91 percent humidity air and the sparseness of a few cool raindrops. I tried to smell a rose, but it didn't smell. I walked and walked. I breathed. I blinked. I lived.
I decided that if what is making me feel badly about my body is my outdated and too-small clothes that fit me ten years and ten pounds ago, I should get rid of my clothes.
I asked myself, "If I could be an athlete or a poet, but only one, which would I choose?" I chose poet before my next breath could leave my body.
It is time to be a new me and to get back to the real me at the same time.
I live in a body that is shocked with indescribable pain dozens of time a day: when I stand from a chair, when I pick up my bag, when I'm getting something out of my trunk, when I'm getting into or out of my car, when step on uneven ground, when I climb stairs, when I bend to look at a student's writing, when I lie down, when I wake up.... But the important part of that sentence is not the pain but the living. I live. And the pain is now part of that.
Can I be a poet in pain? Yes, I think I can.
Can I be an athlete? Probably not.
Can I be beautiful and in pain? Yes, I think I can.
Can I be a size two? Probably not.
Can I love myself while in pain? Yes, I think I can. With some practice.
Can I wait for my body to be what it once was before I get back to the business of living and loving and being beautiful? Certainly not.
By 5pm, I had jumped through the new evaluation hoops, taught (listened to the political views of, comforted, helped, laughed with, waved to, remember the names and personalities of, challenged, supported) 100+ juniors, corresponded with and counselled more in the hallway, attended two meetings, and I'm not sure what all else. My back hurt. A lot. It could be a drop to the floor in agony sort of hurt, but it can't be that anymore. I have a life to live. It's a breathe deep, slow down, and deal with the life you're living sort of pain instead. So I went for a nice long, slow walk. Because that is the once/future me.
While I was walking, I saw a monarch butterfly. I saw a hawk. I saw a pair of heron. I heard rain on pavement and rain on water. I watched the pattern that new rain drops make when interspersed with the spreading circles of former drops. I heard an airplane. I heard cicadas. I felt the thickness of the 91 degree 91 percent humidity air and the sparseness of a few cool raindrops. I tried to smell a rose, but it didn't smell. I walked and walked. I breathed. I blinked. I lived.
I decided that if what is making me feel badly about my body is my outdated and too-small clothes that fit me ten years and ten pounds ago, I should get rid of my clothes.
I asked myself, "If I could be an athlete or a poet, but only one, which would I choose?" I chose poet before my next breath could leave my body.
It is time to be a new me and to get back to the real me at the same time.
I live in a body that is shocked with indescribable pain dozens of time a day: when I stand from a chair, when I pick up my bag, when I'm getting something out of my trunk, when I'm getting into or out of my car, when step on uneven ground, when I climb stairs, when I bend to look at a student's writing, when I lie down, when I wake up.... But the important part of that sentence is not the pain but the living. I live. And the pain is now part of that.
Can I be a poet in pain? Yes, I think I can.
Can I be an athlete? Probably not.
Can I be beautiful and in pain? Yes, I think I can.
Can I be a size two? Probably not.
Can I love myself while in pain? Yes, I think I can. With some practice.
Can I wait for my body to be what it once was before I get back to the business of living and loving and being beautiful? Certainly not.