My Switchback Path
Today, I could tell you about how my flare-up calmed down last week. I could tell you about my incredible evening seeing the powerful new film Feed followed by meeting my favorite actress, who I admire and respect immensely and who wrote, starred in, and produced the film. I could tell you about making it to two aerial classes in a row, and then a barre class a couple days later. I could tell you about the wave of fatigue and exhaustion that followed and the pain my back, hips, and SI joints were in as I laid on the beach afterward. I could tell you about how my new medication isn't working, and how I seem to be headed right back into flare-up territory after only a week out of the last one. I could tell you about my anxiety toward this being my amazing aerial instructor's last week before moving out of state. I could tell you about my upcoming decision this week of whether to go to these last precious aerial classes with her and listen to my body there, or to play it safe and not even go. But I won't tell you about any of that right now.
Instead I want to tell you about my mountain.
The proverbial "they" say every life is a journey. Call it a winding road, call it a mountain path, call it whatever you want. Mine is a switchback mountain path. One moment, I'm heading forward to the beautiful, happy view ahead, and then I turn around. I hope I'm still going up, to that beautiful level of "healthy" and "fit" and "energetic." But I can't always see it. My muscles feel tired, my head is pounding, my joints hurt, and I can only see the struggle I got through below me and the struggle still ahead to get to the top. And then I round another corner.
And the corner is steep, and I can look down and lose my footing and find myself down even closer to the bottom. Or I can look up, and hold on tight, and ride out the steepness while looking ahead, acknowledging that it's hard and it hurts and I'm tired and I'd rather be anywhere else and anyone else, but I am me, and I am going to find my footing and find my motivation and get myself up to the top. And maybe there's a divot or two. I stumble and I fall, and I rely on those around me to pull me up, as independent as I wish I could be. And they pull me up, and the gorgeous view opens up ahead.
I can see it, I can almost touch it. I start to feel the wind in my hair, embrace the sun on my face, take in the flowers on the path. The peak looks so close. My muscles burn with the happy exertion of a fulfilling workout, and the back pain and the knee pain and the ankle pain are dulled with exhilaration, and I feel comforted knowing that all my physical and emotional supports are doing their job, and then I round another corner.
And I can still feel the breeze, and I know I'm going up. But I don't see it anymore. The clouds block the sun, and I just see the shadows. There are still some flowers on the path, here and there, but I don't see where I am going and I don't know how far it is and I forget how to get there. But it is there. The top of the mountain does not go anywhere. I may turn a different path, and take a new switchback, and wind up at a different peak, one that is not quite the one I thought I was aiming for but is just as beautiful.
I guess I don't always know which peak I am headed toward. Sometimes I see it and sometimes I don't. Sometimes the path is lively and gives me energy, and sometimes that same path takes me back around and sucks away my perspective, making the path feel lonely and dreary, and even dip downhill.
But I continue to climb up. And I wouldn't notice the sunny parts without having seen clouds. Nor would I notice the flowers without a barren patch. I won't recognize the pleasant, gentle breeze without experiencing the stifling heat or the wind storm. So I keep climbing.
Instead I want to tell you about my mountain.
The proverbial "they" say every life is a journey. Call it a winding road, call it a mountain path, call it whatever you want. Mine is a switchback mountain path. One moment, I'm heading forward to the beautiful, happy view ahead, and then I turn around. I hope I'm still going up, to that beautiful level of "healthy" and "fit" and "energetic." But I can't always see it. My muscles feel tired, my head is pounding, my joints hurt, and I can only see the struggle I got through below me and the struggle still ahead to get to the top. And then I round another corner.
And the corner is steep, and I can look down and lose my footing and find myself down even closer to the bottom. Or I can look up, and hold on tight, and ride out the steepness while looking ahead, acknowledging that it's hard and it hurts and I'm tired and I'd rather be anywhere else and anyone else, but I am me, and I am going to find my footing and find my motivation and get myself up to the top. And maybe there's a divot or two. I stumble and I fall, and I rely on those around me to pull me up, as independent as I wish I could be. And they pull me up, and the gorgeous view opens up ahead.
I can see it, I can almost touch it. I start to feel the wind in my hair, embrace the sun on my face, take in the flowers on the path. The peak looks so close. My muscles burn with the happy exertion of a fulfilling workout, and the back pain and the knee pain and the ankle pain are dulled with exhilaration, and I feel comforted knowing that all my physical and emotional supports are doing their job, and then I round another corner.
And I can still feel the breeze, and I know I'm going up. But I don't see it anymore. The clouds block the sun, and I just see the shadows. There are still some flowers on the path, here and there, but I don't see where I am going and I don't know how far it is and I forget how to get there. But it is there. The top of the mountain does not go anywhere. I may turn a different path, and take a new switchback, and wind up at a different peak, one that is not quite the one I thought I was aiming for but is just as beautiful.
I guess I don't always know which peak I am headed toward. Sometimes I see it and sometimes I don't. Sometimes the path is lively and gives me energy, and sometimes that same path takes me back around and sucks away my perspective, making the path feel lonely and dreary, and even dip downhill.
But I continue to climb up. And I wouldn't notice the sunny parts without having seen clouds. Nor would I notice the flowers without a barren patch. I won't recognize the pleasant, gentle breeze without experiencing the stifling heat or the wind storm. So I keep climbing.
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