Late this afternoon – after a conference call – my supervisor and I bundled up and headed outside for one of our semi-regular walk breaks around the company’s garden.
For many reasons, I count multiple gratitudes for this privilege.
My hands stuffed into my jacket pockets, my soft scarf wrapped tight, we briskly circled the gravel path a couple of times under the cold, cloudless January blue sky.
I was day dreaming of a blissful run… yet, too soon, our fifteen minutes were up and we were sauntering back to the office.
My knee hurt.
After mellow conversation, I finally let my frustrations flow…
Three different health care providers’ opinions haven’t given me the X, Y, Z diagnosis and prognosis I am seeking for high and low.
Once we returned to our office, turned toasty from the small space heater, my supervisor graciously gave me another set of exercises to do.
And this is when I learned my lesson for the day, as I kept stretching her suggestions.
“You have to think of this as rehab versus training,” she exclaimed.
I unloaded all of my venting into my desk drawer, put her simple wise words into my purse, and went on home.
In my new room, I slipped out of my stiff, shiny black Danskos and dark jeans into sweats and slippers. I remembered there, in my bare skin, when I would rush home from a long day to change into a bright workout outfit and dash off to the box. It wasn’t that long ago, yet it seems so far away.
Things are different currently – momentarily, not permanently.
Tonight, like most nights, I cranked the oven up to 400F and practiced my other passion.
Roasting vegetables and baking experiments have recently replaced my beloved burpees and box jumps.
I comforted myself with warm coconut chocolate chips cookies — eating them moments from exiting the oven, and enjoying the gooey trail of dark chocolate they made on my fingers.
Then, as I sprawled out in the middle of my living room floor, with a five pound weight strapped around my ankle, to do my advised rehabilitory exercises,
I thought about the frequent frustration.
I thought about how my patience has never been tested in this respect.
I thought about the people in my life who have fed me healthy helpings of hope in the past six weeks.
I thought about how they still love the softer version of me during this sabbatical…
and I thought about how, in the middle of this difficultly, there lies the opportunity
to learn to do likewise…
to permit positive self-love during all legs of the race of my life.
I need it now, to heal, and I’ll need it later to finish that full-marathon.