Keep Going
I like to run up hills. Which is funny, because I don’t like to run. Long flat wide open road, treadmill to nowhere—no thank you. A hill, on the other hand, now there’s something to sink into. I find the more you lean in to the hill, the more you propel, and I like to be defiant in that way—let gravity know I have the agency to rise, to see greater heights. (Spoken like a true five foot tall adult.)
A few years ago, I went to a professional development conference where one of the sugary-sweet speakers yelled at us from the stage, imploring us to just stand up and keep going. She likened life to a sort of topographical metaphor involving mountains and valleys and encouraged the audience to rest, if they must, in the valley, but for God’s sake (since he created those glorious mountains), it is our moral duty to get off our duff and get on with our lives. And I quote, “You can’t live in the valley—God made you for more!”
Now, I love a good metaphor, and I love a good personal development tool, but what I don’t love is being unforgiving to my life experience. (Been there, done too much of that.) Let the record show that, for at least the last 20 months, I have been dog-paddling through the quicksand of the valley. I’m not sure I walked myself in (thinking it was more of a pushed-off-the-cliff nose dive situation), but when I took stock and actually found myself in the valley, I looked around and realized I’d better get used to it. I knew I needed to hang out there a while. And in the valley, I sat.
Today, though, I found a nearby mountain (a foothill, if I’m being honest) and I got to work. Mind, body, spirit, here we go—Day 2:
Mind
Meditation game was hella’ strong today. (Thank that time in the valley, I’m getting better at being still.) The mind still played its dirty tricks, though. When I got into the woods, I ran into people. Groups of folks…you know, families. See, when I come across families (togetherness), it feels like a punch to the gut. It’s also sort of a heart punch, and it’s brutal. Immediately upon sighting, my mind retraces every single memory of my own nuclear family experience and plays it for me like a cinema reel. I fear saying this, but it’s the honest to God truth—for me, right now, in this moment of grief, seeing families together makes me angry. It feels unfair and even foreign. I’m working on it. I swear I’m working on it.
Body
Upon waking (and coffee), I went straight to the woods. The hike I chose did not disappoint. It was moderately painful and, at several points along the way, I had to stop. My legs and hips ached with agony from those months of inaction when I could do little more than get up, shower, go to work, come home, pull the covers over my head, rinse, repeat. I will admit, there were moments during today’s hike that I didn’t want to go any further. I wanted to lay down on the red dirt and just give up already. And don’t you know, that sugary sweet voice showed up, screaming, get up and keep going, YOU CAN’T LIVE IN THE VALLEY! And I did. I kept going. For the love and respect of every second spent in the valley, I kept going.
Around the fourth mile marker, my legs stopped throbbing in protest and instead began to tingle. Far beneath the fascia, my muscles were pumping with blood and oxygen and the last few sprints up to the lookout felt like revival. I made it. From the valley to the peak. Hallelujah. I took off my shoes and let the warm sun blanket my tired toes. The hike back down was quick and, as a reward, I drove myself straight to the lake, threw in my paddle board, paddled as hard and fast as I could to my favorite little secret spot, and enjoyed a picnic lunch while my sun-kissed toes dangled in the cool water. Revival.
Truth: when I arrived at the trailhead this morning, I was nervous that my body had atrophied too much, that I’d struggle to make it to the peak. I definitely struggled in parts, but I also remembered just how strong I’ve always been. And, ooh-wee—when that force kicked in, I sprinted up those hills like it was my calling. Body, check.
Spirit
I live seven hours away from my sons. (Let me pause and sink back into this valley for a moment…) The distance has carved out a deep hole in my heart. Some days are easier than others, although there are some when I’m consumed with their absence. On those days, I feel my heart hardening, the callus of grief spreading around all sides. It is a heavy and also hollow feeling—the paradox of a loss that just doesn’t quite make sense. Thank goodness for Ted Lasso, a journal, kitten purrs, state parks, margaritas, music, warm baths, and prayer. Without these things, I would be empty.
I have a tattoo on my right wrist. When I went to have it done on my 40th birthday, the artist asked repeatedly are you sure you want this? She sketched something similar, something “more symmetrical and clean”. There was a moment I didn’t think she’d inject the ink because she felt so conflicted about letting me put my own little sketch from an old journal on my arm to see forever and ever.
The tattoo means several things to me. First, it reminds me of tadasana (mountain pose), my favorite of all the asanas. Tadasana is such a simple shape, yet if we allow ourselves to explore it, we get to discover the depth of what it means to stand on our own two feet. The tattoo also symbolizes my mountains—my two sons hugging me in the middle—they are my great rocks, my precious sights and my heart’s eternal deep.
I’ll climb any hill you put in front of me. I’ll lean in and I’ll run (even if I have to stop to catch my breath) until I reach the peak. Mountains are magnificent, and I want to stand on top of all of them. And guess what, valleys can be gorgeous, too, because when we experience the depth of the valley we can celebrate, with even greater appetite, the breathtaking view from the highest peak.
Keep going, she screamed. Today, I did.
x,
lk
