Yesterday I chose to begin at the trail's start in Travelers Rest, expecting to go another half mile before turning around. I carefully measured the distance in the car before beginning so I would remember the landmark at the turnaround point. But, TR is prepared for walkers like me. Each street crossing is marked with a sign describing the landmarks in the distance - none of them tell you how far back it is to the parking lot.
It's much more intriguing to consider how far you can go than to focus on how far you have to go back. And, so, I kept going. It took me longer to walk past TR's new high school than it took me to walk a mile to school as a teenager. Other walkers passed me on their way out of the parking lot and passed me again on their return trips. I told them "Good morning" once more, as though I hadn't said it to them just a short while before, and kept walking.
Why didn't I bring a hat with a broad brim? The trip out was all about the scenery to the sides of me, thanks to the sun that fell fully on my face. I kept walking, past a cemetery I never knew was there, marveled at the different kinds of flags and banners that hang along the main street of a small town, memorized every house for sale on every side street.
It took me just short of a mile to reach a bench where I could sit down. But first I walked past it, all the way to the corner that marked a full mile from the parking lot, creating a new mental signpost of my own. I thought I would need to rest at least thirty minutes and was surprised when I was ready to go again after ten.
The return trip was slightly downhill and I knew I was making better time. Every now and then I would catch a glimpse of my favorite view in the area - the magnificent Blue Wall of mountains that wraps around the western end of our part of the state. I never knew where to expect it next - between a gap in the trees, over the top of a low building, ahead or to the side of me?
Just as my car appeared in the distance and a grin spread itself across my face, the Trail God decided it would be good for me to bring it home in a full headwind. I leaned into the wind like a stick figure in a cartoon and ignored the plastic flowers blowing off the graves in the cemetery. One slow motion replay of step by step, opposed by tumbling fake blossoms in fast forward.
I kept walking.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Just to Walk
I had a very brief encounter with the Swamp Rabbit Trail last fall in between my two knee replacements. It was enough to walk a half mile with my cane and my husband, stopping frequently to rest.
But, last Sunday I had my first real walk - less than a mile total, no cane, no husband, no friend to be there just in case. In less than a quarter mile I was celebrating the solitude. It was my time to think about what I wanted to and some of the things I always have in the back of my mind at home never appeared at all. I found it far more gratifying to flirt with the risk that I might go slightly too far before I turned around to worry that I might not be able to get back to the car.
I realized quickly that the answer is not to turn around, to arrange for George to drop me off and pick me up at some new intersection, compelling myself to walk an unknown path, until I manage to experience the trail in its entirety through short segments, the goal just to walk, to keep one foot stepping in front of the other.
But, last Sunday I had my first real walk - less than a mile total, no cane, no husband, no friend to be there just in case. In less than a quarter mile I was celebrating the solitude. It was my time to think about what I wanted to and some of the things I always have in the back of my mind at home never appeared at all. I found it far more gratifying to flirt with the risk that I might go slightly too far before I turned around to worry that I might not be able to get back to the car.
I realized quickly that the answer is not to turn around, to arrange for George to drop me off and pick me up at some new intersection, compelling myself to walk an unknown path, until I manage to experience the trail in its entirety through short segments, the goal just to walk, to keep one foot stepping in front of the other.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
One Foot at a Time
About a year and a half ago, I realized my world was getting smaller and smaller, due to the combined effects of diabetes and reduced mobility from the deterioration in my knees. I’ve always been a risk taker and able to evaluate healthy levels of risk, so I decided to use those two strengths to push my boundaries back out. Despite the fact that I have never had an art class in my life, I decided to take painting lessons with two new friends, both accomplished artists. (JJ Ohlinger, www.ohlinger.com, and Darlene Fuhst, www.darlenefuhst.com.)
Last fall I finally realized it was time to replace both knees because I was no longer able to exercise and was beginning to lose control of blood sugar. After surgeries in August and November, I am now able to walk for as much as an hour and a half and my blood sugar is under the best control since I was diagnosed with diabetes seven years ago.
At my last lesson, JJ and Darlene surprised me with the news that they expect me to have Show and Tell within a year. JJ specifically suggested that I consider a series of paintings along Greenville’s wonderful Swamp Rabbit Trail because he knew that one of my goals following surgery was to finally be able to enjoy the trail for myself. The trail provides about 13 miles of paved trails for walkers, runners, and bikers, and will eventually find its way across the entire county.
JJ also says that the collection of paintings I show should reflect my love of story and my continuing journey to improve my health. Each piece should be accompanied by a brief narrative.
OK, I commit. Suddenly my life is about possibility again and I don’t want to take that for granted. I certainly don't see myself as an artist, but I never stop seeing myself as a learner and this offers possibilities.
I've walked two days on the trail this week and hope to write more about that later today. Those two brief trips - less than three miles total - have already taught me that I want to walk or bike the trail in its entirety. More to come as this adventure unfolds.
Last fall I finally realized it was time to replace both knees because I was no longer able to exercise and was beginning to lose control of blood sugar. After surgeries in August and November, I am now able to walk for as much as an hour and a half and my blood sugar is under the best control since I was diagnosed with diabetes seven years ago.
At my last lesson, JJ and Darlene surprised me with the news that they expect me to have Show and Tell within a year. JJ specifically suggested that I consider a series of paintings along Greenville’s wonderful Swamp Rabbit Trail because he knew that one of my goals following surgery was to finally be able to enjoy the trail for myself. The trail provides about 13 miles of paved trails for walkers, runners, and bikers, and will eventually find its way across the entire county.
JJ also says that the collection of paintings I show should reflect my love of story and my continuing journey to improve my health. Each piece should be accompanied by a brief narrative.
OK, I commit. Suddenly my life is about possibility again and I don’t want to take that for granted. I certainly don't see myself as an artist, but I never stop seeing myself as a learner and this offers possibilities.
I've walked two days on the trail this week and hope to write more about that later today. Those two brief trips - less than three miles total - have already taught me that I want to walk or bike the trail in its entirety. More to come as this adventure unfolds.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
New Wood
So much has changed in such a few months. Mom moved into a retirement apartment in March and we’ve been getting her settled ever since. I finally decided to follow through with the knee replacements I’ve needed for years and had the first one in August. The left knee will be done three weeks from today.
I haven’t even thought of a blog entry since Mom moved, as I’ve adjusted to my new role of caregiver to an 82 year old parent with serious medical problems. But, we’ve made the transition successfully, or I should say, we continue to make it daily.
A friend asked me about writing some of the stories from her childhood home town and that triggered my response that I, too might have other things to say. This is a rich new phase of my life as my mother needs me, both challenging and rewarding, and there will be things I want to remember and share with my own children.
As I write, my husband is sanding an area in our dining room that was recently damaged by a broken water line in our kitchen. We managed to say the reclaimed heart pine floors that we purchased and put down four years ago. But the edges of the planks have cupped, leaving the surface uneven, with new scars next to the ones that we chose the flooring for in the first place. As he removes layers of polyurethane, raw wood is exposed, perfect at first glance. But a careful hand can sweep away the dust and sense the variations across the surface. And how will that “new wood” ever blend into the red hues of the rest of the floor again?
In many ways this is the story of the last six months – finding the areas of our lives to be fixed, one by one, sweeping away truths covered by the dust of time, exposing memory and promise, reconciling what was with what will be. We’re moving slowing, but ever more confidently, to something new.
I haven’t even thought of a blog entry since Mom moved, as I’ve adjusted to my new role of caregiver to an 82 year old parent with serious medical problems. But, we’ve made the transition successfully, or I should say, we continue to make it daily.
A friend asked me about writing some of the stories from her childhood home town and that triggered my response that I, too might have other things to say. This is a rich new phase of my life as my mother needs me, both challenging and rewarding, and there will be things I want to remember and share with my own children.
As I write, my husband is sanding an area in our dining room that was recently damaged by a broken water line in our kitchen. We managed to say the reclaimed heart pine floors that we purchased and put down four years ago. But the edges of the planks have cupped, leaving the surface uneven, with new scars next to the ones that we chose the flooring for in the first place. As he removes layers of polyurethane, raw wood is exposed, perfect at first glance. But a careful hand can sweep away the dust and sense the variations across the surface. And how will that “new wood” ever blend into the red hues of the rest of the floor again?
In many ways this is the story of the last six months – finding the areas of our lives to be fixed, one by one, sweeping away truths covered by the dust of time, exposing memory and promise, reconciling what was with what will be. We’re moving slowing, but ever more confidently, to something new.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Limited
Harry is chasing a small bird that leads him from one clump of shrubs to the next. The bird stays on the outside of the shrubs where the threat of the Invisible Fence keeps Harry at a safe distance. Harry always errs on the side of caution; better to stay far short of the fence than risk the warning beep that leaves him frantically searching for familiar ground.
Bess is lying in the middle of the driveway as I ride the required “seven round trips equal a mile” past her. I think each time that I will have to warn her to move in order to pass by. Bess, however, judges the boundaries better than Harry and I do. She’s never afraid to claim as much area as she likes. And now, she’s chosen a spot angled about ten feet behind the truck towards the middle of the driveway. I can ride through easily without disturbing her and put out a hand to touch her at the same time.
I pushed my personal boundaries this week and started drawing lessons this week with an artist friend who commented that I started the way most people begin – with the outside lines. He draws in a way that I don’t even think any more – starting with the fullness of the object, filling a page with dimension and shading and curve and movement without needing to know the edges of the thing itself first.
Boundaries seem to be my issue lately. Once I loved to push outside them. Now, I’m holding myself as close to center as I can. Even as I write, I’m searching for a comfortable closure, trying to find control over threats that are rapidly becoming realities, and avoiding risks that continue to appear without invitation.
Bess is lying in the middle of the driveway as I ride the required “seven round trips equal a mile” past her. I think each time that I will have to warn her to move in order to pass by. Bess, however, judges the boundaries better than Harry and I do. She’s never afraid to claim as much area as she likes. And now, she’s chosen a spot angled about ten feet behind the truck towards the middle of the driveway. I can ride through easily without disturbing her and put out a hand to touch her at the same time.
I pushed my personal boundaries this week and started drawing lessons this week with an artist friend who commented that I started the way most people begin – with the outside lines. He draws in a way that I don’t even think any more – starting with the fullness of the object, filling a page with dimension and shading and curve and movement without needing to know the edges of the thing itself first.
Boundaries seem to be my issue lately. Once I loved to push outside them. Now, I’m holding myself as close to center as I can. Even as I write, I’m searching for a comfortable closure, trying to find control over threats that are rapidly becoming realities, and avoiding risks that continue to appear without invitation.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
New Wheels
Last Saturday George bought me a new bike, actually a new trike. Our chiropractor is a big cyclist and has been telling me for years that I needed a recumbent bike to compensate for the no-knee issue that prevents me from walking.
At a friend's suggestion, we visited Tandem, Touring, and Recumbent Bikes downtown. Pretty soon it was obvious that a trike was actually what I needed and, within a few minutes, I was out on the side street, testing those wings that I'd forgotten I had.
Today I took my first ride around the mall at Furman, under the giant oaks of their fifty year old "new" campus. I set a very limited goal for myself - build enough confidence in the coming month that I could ride five miles on flat terrain at a time. It's limited, but it's ambitious. I made it two miles today easily and could have done much more, but my bladder and I haven't adjusted to the posture of this new trike. Half as much coffee tomorrow morning.
George and I came back to the house to search out a way that I can transport the trike by myself, preferably on the back of my car. The back of the pickup is just too high. Seems like it's going to be easier than we thought. I should have a carrier within a couple of weeks, and then, watch out world! Savannah, I'm coming with a trike next time! Biltmore, close and bar the winery doors!
We also went kayaking on Sunday, something I haven't done in a year. We went almost nine miles and I had no trouble at all. In fact, I realized how much independence I've lost in enjoying physical activiites due to arthritis. Hopefully, I can regain it a little at a time and just enjoy some movement with friends and by myself.
George and I plan to take my maiden trip on the Swamp Rabbit Trail from the far side of Furman up to the Cafe @ Williams Hardware for lunch on Friday - if I can get a trike lock before then. He assures me that it's all downhill on the way back. Good - I can stash one of the Cafe's cocoa cookies with peanut butter and oatmeal in my new basket and have dessert.
At a friend's suggestion, we visited Tandem, Touring, and Recumbent Bikes downtown. Pretty soon it was obvious that a trike was actually what I needed and, within a few minutes, I was out on the side street, testing those wings that I'd forgotten I had.
Today I took my first ride around the mall at Furman, under the giant oaks of their fifty year old "new" campus. I set a very limited goal for myself - build enough confidence in the coming month that I could ride five miles on flat terrain at a time. It's limited, but it's ambitious. I made it two miles today easily and could have done much more, but my bladder and I haven't adjusted to the posture of this new trike. Half as much coffee tomorrow morning.
George and I came back to the house to search out a way that I can transport the trike by myself, preferably on the back of my car. The back of the pickup is just too high. Seems like it's going to be easier than we thought. I should have a carrier within a couple of weeks, and then, watch out world! Savannah, I'm coming with a trike next time! Biltmore, close and bar the winery doors!
We also went kayaking on Sunday, something I haven't done in a year. We went almost nine miles and I had no trouble at all. In fact, I realized how much independence I've lost in enjoying physical activiites due to arthritis. Hopefully, I can regain it a little at a time and just enjoy some movement with friends and by myself.
George and I plan to take my maiden trip on the Swamp Rabbit Trail from the far side of Furman up to the Cafe @ Williams Hardware for lunch on Friday - if I can get a trike lock before then. He assures me that it's all downhill on the way back. Good - I can stash one of the Cafe's cocoa cookies with peanut butter and oatmeal in my new basket and have dessert.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
July 11, 2009
I haven’t written for this site in months – haven’t looked at it – haven’t mentioned it to anyone. I could barely remember my password to post this entry.
I’ve been absorbed in writing an application for a charter elementary school and the accompanying federal grant that will provide funds to assist in planning and implementation. The charter committee got their ideas together in early February and asked me to join them later that month. I was completely willing – their ideas meshed so beautifully with mine. I got a late start writing in late February and all the work was due by May 1.
I’ve done parts of applications before and I’ve had a $200,000 federal grant funded. But I’ve never tackled anything of this magnitude largely on my own. As we submitted revisions, I had tremendous help from the committee, the loveliest and most talented group of people I have ever worked with. I hope to count them as friends for the rest of my life.
Unbelievably, we are a one hour hearing away from full approval. We really have gotten through the roughest obstacles and should know the end results by mid-August.
The grant will bring $700,000 to the school over three years in addition to the per pupil funds that will flow from the state. One of my life goals was to put a million dollars to work. I wrote that one in my early thirties when a million dollars would do a great many things it won’t do now, but I never really thought I would see it done. Classroom teachers rarely get to see that done.
Now, I am caught up in such a mania of emotional and physical response to our apparent success. Pride. Exhaustion. Disconnect with daily activities with my husband and friends. Disgust at my dirty house. Wondering what I overlooked. And the bizarre sense that it is over. My part is over.
That’ necessary due to a conflict of interest that now exists with other responsibilities I have accepted since February. I’ll be there on the day the school opens, if they invite me. But, from this day forward, it is their school.
Once again, like the last day of school with so many children in so many years of teaching, I’m handing the baby back to the ones who gave it birth. I haven’t felt these pangs since I left the classroom and even then they were dulled by the number of times I had experienced them over the years. Not easier, just familiar. I’d have my five minute cry on the way home and look forward to the things I would do with my own children over the summer.
The years since my retirement in 2000 have stripped away the diversions I used to cope with that kind of separation. It’s anguishing. And I think I want to experience it this time.
I’ve been absorbed in writing an application for a charter elementary school and the accompanying federal grant that will provide funds to assist in planning and implementation. The charter committee got their ideas together in early February and asked me to join them later that month. I was completely willing – their ideas meshed so beautifully with mine. I got a late start writing in late February and all the work was due by May 1.
I’ve done parts of applications before and I’ve had a $200,000 federal grant funded. But I’ve never tackled anything of this magnitude largely on my own. As we submitted revisions, I had tremendous help from the committee, the loveliest and most talented group of people I have ever worked with. I hope to count them as friends for the rest of my life.
Unbelievably, we are a one hour hearing away from full approval. We really have gotten through the roughest obstacles and should know the end results by mid-August.
The grant will bring $700,000 to the school over three years in addition to the per pupil funds that will flow from the state. One of my life goals was to put a million dollars to work. I wrote that one in my early thirties when a million dollars would do a great many things it won’t do now, but I never really thought I would see it done. Classroom teachers rarely get to see that done.
Now, I am caught up in such a mania of emotional and physical response to our apparent success. Pride. Exhaustion. Disconnect with daily activities with my husband and friends. Disgust at my dirty house. Wondering what I overlooked. And the bizarre sense that it is over. My part is over.
That’ necessary due to a conflict of interest that now exists with other responsibilities I have accepted since February. I’ll be there on the day the school opens, if they invite me. But, from this day forward, it is their school.
Once again, like the last day of school with so many children in so many years of teaching, I’m handing the baby back to the ones who gave it birth. I haven’t felt these pangs since I left the classroom and even then they were dulled by the number of times I had experienced them over the years. Not easier, just familiar. I’d have my five minute cry on the way home and look forward to the things I would do with my own children over the summer.
The years since my retirement in 2000 have stripped away the diversions I used to cope with that kind of separation. It’s anguishing. And I think I want to experience it this time.
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