Of camping trips and letting go…

For the third consecutive year, my daughter went on her school camping trip (without me).

For the third consecutive year, she woke up very early, got dressed and woke me up with a “Mom, wake up! We have to get to school”.

For the third consecutive year, as I dropped her off at the curb, I felt that inexplicable feeling inside, a strange sense of having parted with something I was not supposed to (although it gets easier each year).

And as I do every year... I drove back and dug out this email I had sent to a few friends, the first year she went camping…

This year, for the first time, I noticed the subject of the email and smiled… and now I’ll stop being wordy and let you read…

Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2012 1:06 PM
Subject: letting go...

Anika went on her first camping trip yesterday. As the scrawny six-year-old lugged her sleeping bag, duffel and backpack, her eyes were lit with excitement and apprehension (or so I think...would like to think (??)). "Okay okay Mommy, I have to go now", as I gave her a bear hug. And before I had even stood up, she was gone...simply vanished into one of the parked cars... i didn't even know which one.

Will it be so quick...will their childhood be so effervescent... gone in a blink of the eye? Before we can stand up, take a breath, will it have simply vanished?

Do we need to teach ourselves to not hold on too tight to something so fleeting...but simply savor it and then let it go...why then, is it so hard to let go...

Do you believe in magic?

Last weekend we saw a beautiful double rainbow. “I don’t see the pot of gold. But I think I do see the rim,” declared our eight-year old squinting her eyes to the horizon. Her dad asked if she also saw any leprechauns. “How would I ever be able to see leprechauns? They’re really tiny. ” But some muttering in the back of the car a little later, suggested that she may have spotted one.

My husband joined in with the imagination. “Such a thick solid rainbow. You could slide down that rainbow.” “I can’t do that” (aha… that must be my gene). “I would need a Unicorn to do that” (and then maybe not).

The conversation and the imagination continued and I wondered how long we had before these conversations would stop altogether.  The status of the tooth fairy has become rather shaky of late and I wonder if Santa is next.

And each time we have such a conversation, the dry, pragmatic in me hopes that I won’t say something to shake her colorful, imaginative world, filled with Unicorns and Leprechauns, and no end to possibilities. For I am not sure how long before this magic disappears into wispy nothingness of rationality and reason. Even if she has on occasion used her magical connections against her parents – especially to get a puppy.  

In many ways she is a poignantly practical, and yet several notes have been written to the several forces that be. Two years ago, the then-six-year-old realized that her parents were not getting her that puppy, and finally sat down and wrote this note. She had taken matters in her own hands and had victory written all over her face.  

 A few months and other attempts later, she tried her luck with the tooth fairy, and even attempted to disguise her handwriting. “Look Mom, the tooth fairy left you a note. And she has scribbly handwriting like yours.”

 

Have you seen a child clench her eyes and make a wish before blowing out a birthday candle? Or think carefully before writing a wish on a paper? Their wishes matter. Their hopes are intact. They know their dreams are going to come true. There is no looming shadow of practicality or pragmatism to shake the belief.  

Our mind will believe what we allow it to believe. Somewhere down the road, I probably taught my mind to be pragmatic and practical. And in doing so, my world became more black and white.

I remember a time when my world was quite colorful too. My imagination will still carry me away I suppose. But it is grounded in reality with all its limitations. And when I hear conversations as these, I wonder if in all our knowledge and learning, we have allowed the magic to slide out…

a five-year-old knows exactly what to do when your mother does not have a green thumb.
 

The letting go inspiration box...

Gracias Gabriel Garcia Marquez for spreading the magic of magic realism...

 

What matters in life in not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it.

 

                                                         ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez                                                                

Dealing with disappointment…

“I’m going to make the most beautiful rainbow disc,” declared my eight-year-old as she found her Perler beads after years. And she set off to do just that. But the dad-daughter ironing effort resulted in her rainbow wonder looking not quite as wonderful as she had imagined. As she scowled with discontent at her bumpy-looking, less-than-perfect rainbow disc, she announced, “I’m going to throw it away” and tried to crumple it with her hands. “But you spent so much time creating it… how can you just throw it away like that?” I questioned.

Tears of disappointment, words of discontent followed. In her mind, the rainbow disc was a symbol of failure and she wanted it gone. I tried cajoling and even humor (that I wasn’t feeling), “Maybe if we get close to a real rainbow, it may have bumps too…” She grinned and then quickly remembered she had to be angry.

She wanted to throw it away. I would not let her. She wanted to forget about it. I wanted her to appreciate it despite the imperfections. And so it remained dejectedly on the coffee table and the kitchen counter. “Do you think everything in life is going to be perfect and will always turn out the way you want it to?” “Yes” she confidently replied and I backed off. There was no way on earth I was to tell her that life was going to bring its share of disappointments. For in her (Harry Potterish) world, that would make me a “deatheater” I’m sure.

But as a parent, I increasingly feel that if there were only one thing to teach my child, it would be to deal with disappointment and frustration. Now, only if I could send her to a class that did that and only if it didn’t involve me being a role-model or whatever else good mothers are supposed to be.

For I realized I was probably no role model for her to emulate. And if she went to a class that taught such things, she could give me a tip or two. For in the recent weeks, I have felt just as crushed by disappointment as my eight-year-old even if it hasn’t involved perler beads. My disappointment has been concerning my health and my inability to feel as “good as new”. And although I may not have ‘hrmphed’ as much outwardly or scowled angrily at a perler bead rainbow… for can I really scowl at myself or my internal organs in the same manner? But the emotions were pretty much accurately mirrored by my eight-year-old frowning at her rainbow disc.

And like most parents who want their child to be better than them…when I saw her poking at the ring this morning (trying to flatten it? trying to break it?), I went at it again. “If a parent had a child with really big ears, they would still love their child, right? They wouldn’t pinch the ears to make them smaller” I mentioned as she pinched her disc. She quickly touched her ears and went on to glare at me. (Sigh… I should probably mention to her this afternoon that she has great ears). “I love your rainbow disc because you spent so much time making it and you were so excited about the colors. I’m going to hang it in my car”, I declared.

I don’t know that I’ve created an optimum situation here. She wants to throw it away and forget about the whole darn thing. I want to hold on to it and even hang it in my car, to remind us to deal with disappointment better and to learn to accept the less-than-perfect in our life. Maybe I’m being tad harsh here. But I really don’t want her to throw away the colorful thing and want her to like it despite its bumps.  

For maybe if we get close to a real rainbow, it may have bumps too…

 

Letting go… of feeling like a hypochondriac and being okay with… being a hypochondriac

Okay I’ll just say it. I am a hypochondriac. Or so it seems – each time I call the triage nurse line, or a doctor’s office, or even my dentist. The treatment I receive is familiar, as is the tone in which the nurses speak to me. On occasion, I have wanted to say to them, “I know that you know that it all works out in the end and that I’m flapping for nothing. But I don’t know that (yet); nor do I know (yet) that I’m flapping for nothing. So let me flap away and please don’t talk to me in that patronizing tone.”  

Besides I believe I may have reason to flap. For each time I play it cool, it doesn’t end well.  Like the time I played it cool and thought the rash on my abdomen was nothing. I mentioned it oh-so-casually to the nurse at the pre-surgery appointment. I saw alarm on her face and almost heard the alarm in her head. She dashed out, returned with a doctor who told me I had shingles. They told me surgery was probably postponed and hurriedly shooed me out of their hospital.

Or the time I played it cool after a colonoscopic procedure. I was in discomfort. But the doctor performing the procedure said it was just bloating and I let it go. Two days of discomfort later, I decided to try acupuncture. One look at my distended abdomen and my naturopath asked me to get x-rays and see my doctor. She suspected perforation. Guess I had played it cool again – unwisely so. And the look on the x-ray technician’s face was one I will always remember. Not only did she do multiple x-rays to confirm, but she patted me on my back, asked me to be very careful, asked if I had a ride home, if I wanted to sit down, if I needed water... I really didn’t need the radiologist’s report to confirm the perforation.

So does that mean I have a knack for flapping over the inconsequential and ignoring the important? I wish I had the opposite problem. But wait, that wouldn’t be a problem – that would be wisdom. Sigh…  

These days, I can’t even judge if it is the hypochondriac inside me rising or if the matter is truly legit. Like a few days ago, when the dentist inserted toothpick–like things between my teeth and forgot to take one out. It hurt like crazy, and I called his office only to be told by him (patronizingly) that it was normal for the gums to be sore. When I insisted there was something pokey sticking out of my gums, he finally relented (disapprovingly) and told me to come in if I liked. A long wait later, I sat in his chair, with dark goggles and an open mouth and he saw the jabbing souvenir left in my gums. “No, you’re not crazy.” (his attempt at humor??) “You would have been miserable going into the weekend like this.” The dark goggles prevented me from staring at him in disbelief and my open mouth prevented me from uttering any words of protest/confusion…whatever…

This is really not an essay of complaint about nurses, doctors and health care givers. For I consider them an absolutely wonderful breed. I have met and been under the care of the kindest, most wonderful and most compassionate doctors and nurses and I am continuously in awe of how much they give of themselves to others. They have indeed saved me many times over and it would be anything but gracious for me to whine about them. They are just doing their jobs and I feel really sorry that they have to deal with me and many such “me”s. Yikes!

All I’m trying to come to terms with is that when you’re sick, it’s okay to feel scared, or alarmed, and it’s okay to be a hypochondriac and it’s okay to be a bit of a nuisance and call with questions or concerns, and it’s okay to want to develop a thicker hide when the nurse’s tone is patronizing (the hide will thicken with time – or so we can hope), and it’s okay to call again when they do not respond to your last call. And perhaps it’s wise to not take a dismissing tone too personally, or a shake of the head too literally. If you feel sick and if you think you need to talk to an expert, then hypochondriac or not, you deserve to be heard.

Hypochondriac or not… If I am one, hopefully I will not remain one forever. In the meantime, if I am one, I hope I will figure out how to deal with being one.

Letting go... of judging parenting choices…

I have mixed feelings about the burgeoning of all these “enrichment” classes. The kind you send your kids to so they will develop superhuman powers in math and language – Kumon, Brainchild, Singapore math, Japanese abacus… Maybe I live in the wrong suburb -- but I swear I seem to find a new one every day.

I think of these as ugly warts on childhood. I can understand tutoring if a child is falling behind in school, but really don’t see its need to make sure the kid stays at the top. And how many kids can there really be at this “top”? And what is the “top” even in third grade?

A parent of a third-grader in a neighboring public school griped that she felt compelled to send her unwilling child to an enrichment center simply because everybody in her class did so and as a result most of the class was ahead of their curriculum.

I believe our kids should just come home and play. True my child does a bunch of activities (even if it’s not math and language enrichment). And I do go back and forth as to whether she needs to be that busy.

But I was shocked to hear her announce, “Mom, I want to go to Brainchild.” (Many of her friends do) I stared at her aghast. “You got to be kidding. They give homework you know” (yes, yes… manipulative me). “Imagine… you get back from school and I badger you to do the ‘brainchild homework’. You’ll want to play and I’ll say, ‘homework first’ and we’ll have a fight.” Et voila – mission successful. She stared back in horror and the topic has never come up since.

Although, as soon as the words rolled out of my mouth, I tasted regret, “what happens if I completely change my stance on this matter and want her to go there???” Oh well… that will be a different blog post I suppose.

Parenting comes with its share of insecurities I suppose. We just don’t want to screw up and some time spent in an enrichment center seems a safe bet I suppose. (now, if only I didn’t make it sound quite like jail…)

But the other day, I realized that I had no business to judge. I was complaining to my husband of yet another enrichment center and how much pressure we are putting on our kids. He didn’t quite nod in agreement as I would have liked. “Everybody is just trying to enrich and supplement their kids knowledge. We do it too.” “We do?” I asked throwing him my best ‘you’re-so-wrong’ look.

“You’ve been reading to her since she was born. I’m surprised you didn’t have any books in the hospital,“ he went on. “But I love books and she does too!” I protested. “In fact she reads more than me; faster than me. And she won't even read aloud with me any more as I slow her down,” I grimaced.

“Well, that’s because you have made her so by introducing books, by reading to her – it the same thing” he calmly pointed out. Grrr… I hated being shown I was wrong and I could have continued arguing as to how much she enjoys it, how much fun it’s been… why, I could have even touched a raw nerve or two by mentioning how he or nobody in their side of the family even reads. Sigh... maybe the scowl I gave him had already said all that. But I knew he had a point. I had chosen this “enrichment” somewhat unconsciously; some parents do so more consciously.

So in the end, as parents, we’re all just the same - we’re just trying to look out for our kids; trying to give them in their childhood what we deem important – for some it may be math, for some it may be the arts, for some it may be experiences… but in the end we’re all the same and there is no room for judgment.

 

Vanity

Admit it. The last time you passed a mirror, you quickly checked yourself out. You did, didn’t you? That’s exactly why mirrors were made. For vanity. Why else? And if you’re looking for any profound thoughts on the mirror being a metaphor for life’s reflection, look elsewhere. At other times, that may be in tune with the tone of this blog; but today we’ll wade through the shallow waters of vanity – and drift towards the shallowest end - of personal appearances. Yes, vain - just the way I am.

I must admit, even I am rather surprised as I type this. I’m the one who finger combs her hair, owns only a broken hairdryer (that is rarely used), has hardly any hair products, gave away all high heeled shoes and uncomfortable clothes some years ago, and tells the story of how I lost my make up when we moved four years ago and never bothered to restock (other than lipstick and eye liner – come on, even I don’t live entirely in the dark ages).

The other day, a friend asked me about Indian beauty salons in town where they thread eyebrows into perfect shape. She had heard it was an Indian thing to do and thought of asking me. I winced and recounted how a college friend and I had gone to one such place many years ago. As my friend got her eyebrows threaded, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. One look at her tear-stained, perfect-eyebrowed-face made my courage falter. My low pain threshold made me decide that my eyebrows were absolutely perfect just the way they were. (And I repeat this perfect lie to myself even today). My friend, however, was unfazed and said she had no problems enduring pain for vanity and told me of some of the other things she had tried. We laughed and I gave contact details of where she could get herself a set of perfect eyebrows.

When I read of silicone implants, and botox, and nose jobs, and tiny surgeries to get dimples (yes, yes… you read right), I thank my lucky stars for being quite comfortable with my ‘imperfections’ and not quite as vain. But a quick glance at my feet makes me realize how far from the truth I am. My nails are painted and stamped, I have silver toe rings and for the past week or so, I have been wearing silver anklets – and jingly ones, mind you. Nah…these feet do not belong to a not-so-vain person.

So vanity may not be a top priority, but it is there all right. Ask the countless mirrors around town that I’ve quickly peeked into; ask the countless pairs of shoes I’ve drooled over; ask the countless clothes that have lain rejected on the floor, for not ‘looking right’ on a certain day.

Blame it on the countless glossies, films and billboards. Yes, media conditioning, I am your victim.

I wonder what prompted me to write this. It may have something to do with a few women friends (and yes, only women seem to be brave enough to be open about it) admitting to being vain. They may have laughed it off, but they did make it sound like it was a fault.

So is it a fault? Or is it part of self image (for there is no turning back on media conditioning now).

I am not quite sure. But I do I believe vanity may have saved me recently. After my first surgery, I felt ugly and frumpy and could have remained in the dark crevices of body image issues. But instead, my vanity picked me up and showed me the way to my regular clothes, jewelry and make-up (okay okay, whatever little I still own). Why, I believe I may have even dressed better than usual.

I am not sure where the line ends with vanity and where it begins with self image. Maybe vanity is a spectrum and each one of us lies somewhere on that spectrum. Maybe it is useful for us to know what vanity means to us and our self image. For me, vanity is equated with fun. I think it’s perfectly fine to be vain as long as it is fun. And I do believe there is such a thing as ‘healthy vanity’. Oh come on, do let me coin a few terms for us vain people.

And it seems like those silly, jingly silver anklets are not going back into the dresser any time soon... sigh…

Really, did I just post a picture of my feet on the blog? Seems bit much...even for me...In the name of vanity...sigh...

 

The letting go inspiration box...

At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want.

                          ~Lao Tzu


 

Letting go…of the Gila Monster

“Mom, do you know about the ‘hila’ monster?” “What monster now?” I inquired back. Gauging the uninformed look on my face, the eight-year old went on to enlighten her ignorant mother. “It’s not really a monster; they just call it that... It’s this biiig, very very venomous lizard”. With wide eyes and animated hands, she continued to educate me about the animal world (as she often does). “There aren’t even many poisonous lizards, you know… And it’s spelt with a ‘g’…  G-I-L-A even if it is pronounced ‘hila’,” continued our little-Miss-know-it-all.
 
“And you should always always remember this... If it ever gets on you like this…” (her hand is now on my tummy pretending to be this gila monster) I listened carefully – for the likelihood of this ever happening suddenly seemed very strong; or so it seemed - going by her animated discussion and warnings. “So if it ever gets on you, the trick is to relax. For if you relax, it will fall off. But if you tense up, it will stay put”.

I was finally listening. For to me, that was the most riveting bit of information thus far.

“Wow… what you just said probably applies to everything sweetie – to all our difficulties... When we tense up, nothing will shake off, right? And when we relax…” She rolled her eyes, “Mom! Let’s not talk about all that… I was telling you about the gila monster.” Her indignation made me let go. After all, how could I steal her thunder – especially when it related to big, fat, venomous tropical lizards?

But as her sweet little voice droned on about deserts and lizards, my mind had moved elsewhere. I had been holding on to my own gila monster for the past couple of months. My health woes had worsened, and I had tensed and tightened as a result. How in the world will I be able to shake of the gila monster if I remain thus? For the monster seems to be there. And how can you not tense when you have the gila monster on you? But the trick, as my wise little child had told me was to relax despite the monster.

The cynic in me wants to tell the child to go to her information source and find out exactly "how” to relax despite a fat poisonous lizard on you. The optimist in me wants to take her advice and find a way to relax despite the gila monster.

And just as she said, maybe “it’s not really a monster; they just call it that…”

Random acts of kindness

I don’t generally perform random acts of kindness. Sure I’ll pick up the stray vegetable in the grocery store or help someone cross the street or hold the door for someone who has their hands full. Not to say I’m an unkind person. I would like to think of myself as somewhat socially responsible and I do like to help when I can.

But yesterday it dawned on me that I don’t perform random acts of kindness and that I may be more measured in my generosity or kindness. We donate to several charities; I believe in many causes, but I give it thought and choose where to donate. I rarely give money to homeless people. Although some years ago, my daughter and I made packets with cans of soup and granola bars and handed them to homeless people holding up signs. But that was not a random act of kindness. I had thought it through. I did not want to give them money in case it got used for drugs or alcohol, but I did feel the urge to help when I saw a homeless person holding up a sign. So that was my measured kindness.

Yesterday, I was at the social security office to get my lastname changed (of course only after my husband told me that we could not file our taxes till it happened. Sheepishly I finally dragged myself there). It’s always an interesting bunch at the social security office. There was a sweet old lady somewhere in her seventies sitting next to me. Another lady came by and asked her how much longer it was going to take. Her number (quite close to mine) was ways away. The woman handed her a five dollar bill and said, “Here’s some money for the bus in case you don’t get your check today”. The chairs were stuck to each other and everybody around her heard this. The sweet old lady didn’t seem embarrassed or uncomfortable and was ever so gracious. She thanked the younger lady for giving her a ride and for the money. Her acceptance of the situation that she found herself in was so graceful and dignified. I was more ruffled than she was to learn that she didn’t have money even for the bus ride home.

I squirmed in my chair. She remained perfectly poised. An hour later, just as they called her number, I said to her, “I could give you a ride home. Wherabouts do you live?” She was surprised but seemed pleased. I told her I would be done in a few minutes and could take her home. She was very gracious and told me where she needed to go. I was surprised at myself. For I rarely help complete strangers to this extent. I would never give a ride to a hitchhiker (besides, with my habit of stepping into unwanted adventures, that is probably wise). My heart went out to the old woman, but it had taken me a while to offer help. I had sat next to her in silence, listening to my music, thinking of all the strange things that normally travel through my head, and from time to time wondering whether to offer help. And it was no momentous deed either – it was just a ride home.

Yet this was my random act of kindness. I wish I could tell you how good it felt and how elated I was and how delighted she was and how we developed this beautiful friendship… Sigh… move on to a different blog if you’re looking for that.

I was mostly awkward and even a little uncomfortable, even though it did feel good. The old lady was delighted and tad puzzled. We didn’t exchange names or numbers or life stories and I was glad. Surprising that… for I happily share my life story or experiences with strangers. I was trying to maintain a cool composure and didn’t want her to feel any less dignified for she was all dignity and composure. And I would never want her to lose any of it. She thanked me sincerely, but with great composure and I was thankful she was in no way gushy.

I wish I could say that from here on, I will be the epitome of random acts of kindness. Unlikely. For I had stepped outside my comfort zone. Was I glad I did so? I truly was. Will I do so again? Unlikely.

I don’t even know what kind of letting go needs to happen to allow for random acts of kindness. I don’t know that I will ever be capable or comfortable with it or even begin to understand what it takes. For despite my stray act of random kindness, I think I may still be a little bewildered.

In search of meaning… really???

A friend called today. She mentioned my blog. I told her it was over. She flatly told me that I couldn’t stop. She told me how another journalism friend and she had recently discussed how proud they were that I was writing again (gulp… gulp…). “Please don’t say things like that to me – especially now that I’ve quit” I whimpered back. “No pressure, no pressure…” she replied (in glee???). And of course, she went on to say how the other friend was inspired to start writing again (gulp…gulp…).

I would so want him to write again. For he writes beautifully. I would want the friend I was on the phone with, to start writing again. For she writes beautifully. And I would want all the others to do the same for the exact same reason. Interestingly, of our journalism group, only two remain journalists and writers today. The rest of us drifted away. And yet I remember how we would be in awe of each other’s writing prowess, position and perspectives, energy and ingenuity. We were all so very different - we had absolutely nothing in common and yet writing was the thread that bound us. The notes we exchanged in class (in rhyme and poetry, mind you) made for the most fun, hilarious and at times profound and insightful reading ever. We seemed to be an explosion of chaos and creativity - much like our time in the journalism department - with our idealism and energy; deliberation, youth and creativity.

I could picture my friend rubbing her hands with a “my work here is done” smugness.  Truly, her work was done. We joked about it as we joke about everything – the surly man at the office I was waiting at, her failing to pass the driving test, having used press cards to get out of situations…” And yet, I knew I would get back home and write. And I did just that.

Illness makes you reflect on a lot of things. Maybe it is simply because you have more time to do so and less energy to do other things you would have normally busied yourself with. If that is wise or really silly, I don’t know. But I do know that when I told my friend I wasn’t going to write anymore, the writing had seemed like an inward, withdrawn and lonely matter and I didn’t want that.

But my friend’s lovely, sunny (and at the time annoying) voice told me that it was anything but withdrawn and pulled me out of my shell. I wondered why I responded so quickly to her words.  

I suspect we are constantly in search of meaning. I suspect we want to be part of a greater community, a greater sense of being. I suspect we want our actions to matter more and maybe I viewed my writing as being withdrawn and “only for me” and I didn’t want that anymore. Each time we question the meaning of things - the smaller thing - the things that we enjoy - the things that seem natural – I believe we create trouble for ourselves. And I suspect a lot of the smaller things we do are more meaningful, more connecting, more wonderful than we imagine.

As for my friend, I can see the naughty sparkle and satisfaction in her eyes as she reads this.  

Jumping off a train…

The other day while discussing some health issues, I blurted out… “It’s just like jumping off a moving train…” It truly is. For when you jump off a moving train, you don’t leap off lightly to land perfectly upright on your feet. No, you need to keep running with the train and in the direction of the train at least a short distance.

Okay okay, I’m not talking about jumping off a high speed Shinkasen or TGV and there are no dramatic bridges or burning trains involved. I’m simply referring to jumping off a clunky slow moving train onto a platform. And yes, you would have to have lived or travelled to certain parts of the world to have seen this or done this.

For when you jump off a train onto the platform, you cannot bring yourself to a screeching stop. Once your feet find the platform, you have to keep running with the train at least a short while. While physicists will explain better via laws of momentum and speed, I think it is an apt analogy for life and change.

Oftentimes, it is hard to break free of the previous situation with surgical precision and we may have to continue awhile with the energy of prior circumstances. And I find this ever so true. I lived with a chronic illness for many years. And just because I am trying to jump off that train, the pace and drudgery of that big clunky train is yet very much a part of me.

It has not been possible for me to suddenly stop or start running in a different direction. My feet may be off the train and may have touched the platform but I have to still keep running with the momentum of my previous life and that includes the illness. For that is the speed and energy my body understands and is accustomed to and it cannot change its course overnight. And that is true of healing as well. Although remedial procedures and steps have been taken, my body seems to have a long way to go. It still needs to run with the pace of the train before it knows to be on its own, without the grind, grief or ghost of the train.

I have no idea how long that is going to be. At times it feels as if I’m going to run with the heavy clunky train forever. And each time I feel so, maybe I can remind myself that I have indeed leapt of the train - even if I need to run a little while longer with it. And recognizing that speed and energy will allow me to transition to the platform better. And perhaps in due course I may take a new train even.

But for now, I can try and keep all this in perspective, even when my feet and heart hurt at the idea of having to run with my clunky train.