Years ago, I was the kind of woman who fancied herself a pretzel. I contorted my body into odd shapes and practiced my breathing. I went to kirtans and wore pants that now rival the cost of my weekly grocery bill. I practiced yoga for 90 minutes a day, nearly five days a week. I was strong, centered and eating salad.
Until one day I muscled my way through bound triangle pose. Note to self: don’t do this.
While I could perform anatomical feats with my hips and back, my hamstrings were tight. No matter how much I practiced and stretched and breathed—I couldn’t get the pose. My knee was always bent when it should be straight. I used a strap because I couldn’t get my arms in the right position. And so on one particular evening, I said fuck this noise and did the pose.
And then I screamed in the middle of a class of 40 because I tore my hamstring, an injury that would take over a year to heal. In private, my teacher talked to me about ego, blind ambition—the desire for a certain look, a certain end, a certain story—all of which was the antithesis of yoga. You do realize it’s not over. There will always be another pose. Another challenge. Another obstacle for you to breathe your way through.
But I was arrogant and didn’t listen. It took me a decade to see me for who I truly was—a woman steeped in want. Driven by ego. And it took further still for me to see the beauty of the basic. Revisiting that which you think you know and re-learning it all over again. And in that study your perspective widens. You appreciate the small things. You bask in humility. You’re forever a student.
Now, I’m a student of walking. One foot in front of the other.
After a frightening fall down a flight of stairs where I fractured this and tore everything else, I became frightened of walking. What if my kneecap dislocated again? What if I fell? Better to cleave to this immobilizer. Better to strap that leg in tight. Better to never bend it again. And I felt this way for the last month in Bakersfield because nothing felt safe. This brace was yet another fortress I built around my body.
When I returned to Los Angeles two weeks ago, I took the brace off because I was home.
But there’s a wide chasm between taking off the brace and running on a treadmill. Or going on the five-mile daily hikes I took for granted. And while I’m making tremendous strides already in physical therapy, I can feel the ego edging in.
My therapist tells me there’s a difference between challenging yourself, dealing with a manageable bit of pain and pushing your way back to injury. Today, I sit on a bench and tried to lift my leg straight and I wince and bite my lip until it almost bleeds. My therapist holds my knee the whole time and he can feel the unsteadiness, the ligaments shifting. You’re not ready for this yet, he says. Let’s build up the strength around the kneecap so it gets easier over time.
At the end of the session, we talk about expectations. I can do all the exercises and challenge myself but healing simply takes time. It’s not something one could power their way through. The objective is to avoid surgery, my therapist says. He tells me I could be walking normally in 3-6 months. All color leaves my face. I am possibly catatonic.
Six months?
But I remember the younger version of me. The lithe yogi who was strong, yet arrogant. Who wanted everything now instead of easy does it. So, I celebrate the minor triumphs. The fact that I’ve graduated to a cane. That this is the first day since the accident I’ve walked outside without a brace. That I pushed myself in physical therapy but I knew when to stop. That I committed to talking this slow. Because I miss walking. I miss movement. I miss jumping up and down and legs shaking in yoga class. I miss fresh air for hours and getting lost in Los Angeles. I live in the Hollywood Hills and I miss the climb. How the sky darkens in the evening in a way it doesn’t on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Perhaps I miss moving because the lack of it puts me to thinking of a time when I’ll no longer move. The final sleep. Perhaps this is also why I rush things because I feel the need to get everything done, to fit a whole life in before it all runs out.
Post-Script:
I’m starting a couple of new projects and possibly a volunteering gig, so things will be hectic around these parts. BUT! My commitment to this space will not waver.
I’m making seismic shifts in my clothing re-selling business to focus on fewer better items. Sustainable pieces, clothing that has longevity and a story. I’m really excited about this!
From a former Fitness professional - listen to the physical therapist and go slow. Your body will thank you in years to come. Oh the stories I can tell you!
Four days after my quadruple bypass surgery I was taken to Physical Therapy to begin rebuilding strength. My mind was still in a state five days earlier with complete mobility. I looked at my petite PT instructor and boldly stated, “Let”s get this show on the road” she looked at me and said with absolute but gentle authority, “Slow your roll cowboy, you are not my first cardiac patient!” I had no idea what I couldn’t do. I quietly did everything I was told and She had me climbing stairs without breathing hard in 3 weeks. I still send her a card every Christmas thanking her.