Moving

A friend sent me an essay written by the rector of her Episcopal church, an Advent Reflection. In it, the auther of the piece talked about a fall she recently took while running, and finding grace in having fallen. My friend sent it to me because I took a hard fall while running in early November, a little over a month ago. I hit the concrete pavement very hard, such that I gave myself a black eye and broke my radius at the wrist so badly I needed surgery to have it fixed with a titanium plate. 

Since being forced to work from home these past nine months due to the pandemic, I have put in hundreds, if not thousands, of miles walking and running all over Capitol Hill and its environs, discovering interesting little streets and byways I have never explored in the 29 years I've lived in this neighborhood, and, most joyfully of all, discovering the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail, both the east and west banks. It has called to me every morning since, and even when I've gotten a good five- or six-mile run in that day, it continues to call to me as I sit at my desk and work. 

 Then came my fall. 

 I took a two-hour walk this morning, and walked close to six miles.  I walked on the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail, the place where I have derived so much joy from running these past many months (not the concrete-paved stretch along the Navy Yard, where I fell).  As runners jogged past me, I wanted to call out to each and every one of them, "That was me too, just over a month ago-- I'm a runner too!"  But I didn't.  I had my trusty hiking staff with me, which I'm taking with me as a security blanket when I walk alone for the time being, until my wrist, my spirit, and my courage heal, but there were many stretches where I held it in the middle of the stick, swinging it freely, parallel to the ground, and not using it.   

My legs are a little stiff now from having walked so far after walking at most only a block or two at a time since I fell-- but the point is to keep moving, however I can.  Since aging is inevitable, and with it a certain amount of physical loss, however genetically gifted or mentally determined one may be, I guess there is grace in being made mindful of what I have and in getting the invitation to contemplate how I'll adapt to loss as I age. 

I took a quick trip to Whole Foods this morning (I have driven myself a couple of times this week, too!), and as I was getting into my car in the Whole Foods parking lot, a woman I know from St. Mark's, just a couple of years older than me and a former but long-time alto member of the choir, popped into my head.  She died of non-smoker's lung cancer just a couple of months ago.  The list of fellow altos, with whom I have spent so many delightful and inspiring hours, and who are no longer with us, ran through my mind:  Kitty D., Vicki S., Lee Ann S., Mal C., Suella H.... all but one were fairly close to my age.  I am here and they no longer are.  I thought, I can still sing on their behalf, but one day I'll join them.  Meanwhile, I am here, despite my screwed-together wrist, doing my best to keep moving.