Blessed as I have been, those benedictions have not extended to my shoulders, joints fashioned at a time when my creator was perhaps not paying apex attention. Carrying less weight than Atlas, but assuming burdens nonetheless, there is a lyrical resonance to the fact that these twin disasters have been torn asunder through literal and figurative overuse. And, yes, I am hard on myself, psychologically, but physically as well, reckless abandon not being the ideal guiding principle for bodily sanctity. So, now, at 45, pain resonates through my right shoulder and leaves me feeling bereft, incomplete, very human indeed.
The shell of my home is worn down, boards are cracking, siding is sidling away, paint chips, and my refuge feels vulnerable, less than protective. Out exploring, witnessing magical sites and sights, it is to this place that I return to recharge. Stripped and weathered, its power for healing is diminished, inattention by its supposed guardians accelerating the natural course of degradation. Entering, I am overly aware of the passage of time, experience acutely the irreversible direction of existence.
A duo constantly on the move, our chariot is our home away from home, ensconces us as we traverse the inevitable distances of our lives. Its utility and comfort and penchant for cruising are taken for granted when the complex machine functions as intended. The vehicle has been driven hard and taken many a beating, raising nary a complaint, surmounting most every obstacle. But it is not indestructible. Finally, it has begun to leak and creak and knock, to blow hot air when it should be frosty, is exhibiting signs of premature aging.
Kinetic and intense in the various facets of my life, I am now suffering the ill effects of the dastardly combination of deferred maintenance and untimely bad fortune. Forced into repair mode, I am not ignoring the blatant synchronicity of my shoulder, house, and Tahoe breaking down in the same interval. Sometimes obtuse, I am not totally clueless, the signs are flashing in neon and, heeding such portents, I am afforded a perfect opportunity to take stock, to reflect, to adjust, to game plan. Youthful, but not young, the pattern of all gas and no brakes has to shift, lest deterioration become the norm.
This knowledge washes over me and, as I surface for air, the next wave is filled with gratitude that these maladies and malfunctions are repairable. Loved ones having been claimed by acute calamities or chronic and terminal illnesses, there is great solace in knowing that these are temporary speedbumps on what has mostly been a smooth road. In constant motion, I loathe having to take time to recover, to remedy, to wait for things to be fixed, even though I know that these periods of recuperation can be extremely productive and developmental. Last winter’s ankle injury seems like a distant memory and I had to be reminded to recall the peace that accompanied my convalescence.
Part of my great thankfulness is that I live in a community replete with the most excellent orthopedic surgeons, that wood can be sustainably replaced, that there are mechanical minds that can diagnose and fix the most serpentine of automotive systems. In the long and short journey that is this life, the importance of an interlocking, mutually supportive human population cannot be overstated.
Soon, all will be mended or on the mend and I can forestall laying my head in a bed by the waterside for as long as I am meant to avoid that fate.