Things have been progressing well recently. I'm still at physical therapy 8+ hours a week and then exercise on my own the other 4 days of the week. I don't kid around. Being able to run again is wonderful. I've lost over 10 pounds and finally fitting back into all my pants again. Slowly but surely, I'm getting stronger and faster. I'm still months away from knowing if this surgery really did anything for me, so I continue to live in the moment. I do really think that I am going to see results and I have a lot of hope in my heart going forward.
My pain is still pretty bad, but is quickly overshadowed by the ability to work out again. My friends and family continue to be incredibly supportive; I owe them everything. One thing I've noticed is I am handling meeting new people very differently than before. I used to be so open about everything, but now I want to keep my feelings and experiences to myself. It's becoming difficult to connect with people in my classes, new acquaintances, dates... I find myself withdrawing and saying as little about myself as possible. It's so hard to explain! I want them to know my story, but then again it causes me anxiety figuring out when the appropriate time is to explain and exactly how much I should be explaining. I know a lot of you understand. We don't want to be defined by our pain, yet we don't want people to forget. We don't want pity, we want understanding. We want to look healthy some days and want to look sick other days. We want answers. We need answers.
I find so much solace in Mary Oliver's poems. In honor of Poetry Month, here's a few that have made my week. Regardless of your circumstances, please let me know in the comments which of the three struck you the most, and if you feel like sharing, why?
The Uses of Sorrow(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.
-----------------------------------
HeavyThat time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying
I went closer
and I did not die.
Surely God
had His hand in this,
as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,
was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry
but how you carry it-
books, bricks, grief-
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it
when you cannot, and would no,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?
Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?
How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe
also troubled-
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?
-----------------------------------
In the StormSome black ducks
were shrugged up
on the shore.
It was snowing
hard, from the east,
and the sea
was in disorder.
Then some sanderlings,
five inches long
with beaks like wire,
flew in,
snowflakes on their backs,
and settled
in a row
behind the ducks-
whose backs were also
covered with snow-
so close
they were all but touching,
they were all but under
the roof of the ducks' tails,
so the wind, pretty much
blew over them.
They stayed that way, motionless,
for maybe an hour,
than the sanderlings,
each a handful of feathers,
shifted, and were blown away
out over the water
which was still raging.
But somehow,
they came back
and again the ducks,
like a feathered hedge,
let them
crouch there, and live.
If someone you didn't know
told you this,
as I am telling you this,
would you believe it?
Belief isn't always easy.
But this much I have learned-
if not enough else-
to live with my eyes open.
I know what everyone wants
is a miracle.
This wasn't a miracle.
Unless, of course, kindness-
as now and again
some rare person has suggested-
is a miracle.
As surely it is.
