February 10, 2022
The older I get the more fragile my body feels, but in a good way. I can feel things right before they’re about to happen. If a muscle needs special attention, I can be gentle with it before it becomes too soar or tears. When I was in my twenties, I knew how to go fast all the time. And in this way, being inside of my body was fun and exciting, but also often painful, because I didn’t understand how to work within myself and how to take care of this person who I was carrying around inside of me, myself.
The speed was a thrill, but the recklessness and lack of experience made things hard. Now the speed is still there, but it takes greater focus, concentration, and intention to feel it. I can’t eat and drink just anything, and I can’t eat and drink at just anytime. I can’t forget about the breath without consequences, and the farther I get away from taking time to sit down and breathe, the farther away I feel from myself. I can push through pain and discomfort if I want, but knowing that the chances of illness, fatigue, anxiety, and depression are higher now than they were ten years ago, I’m less inclined to push through, and more likely to rest, trust, and wait.
I’m talking about holding my life with a lighter grip, or no grip at all. The city makes this more and less difficult. Less difficult because it gives you more chances for practice, and more opportunities to fall into the rhythm of life around you while still remaining collected and in control. It’s more difficult because more data and events present themselves for processing than you would face in the suburbs, or the woods. And I’m talking about competing forces: voices; the energy of pedestrians around you; the intentions of drivers turning left and right into crosswalks; and the sounds of radios playing, ambulance sirens crying out, and traffic cops directing your steps. The body has to respond to all of this. The only question is whether the response will be conscious or unconscious; whether these events will happen too quickly to understand, or whether I’ll slow down, stay still within myself, and try to feel into these little moments of time.
It’s not easy, but I’m better at it now, in my thirties, than I ever was in my twenties. I felt all of this in an instant today. I was in Dewitt Clinton Park and working on my tennis game on one of the handball courts: paying close attention to my footwork and hitting forehands and backhands against the wall again and again. After about twenty minutes and a few moments after a water break, as the ball approached, I pulled my racquet back to prepare for a backhand, but then just before I swung my arms forward, my left forearm cried out and I heard its pain. The muscle did not tear, but it did speak to me: “Hey, remember me? Be careful with me. Be gentle. Be kind.”
