It's an Athletic Event

I used to say it to my patients/clients when they were sick or had family visits or did overwhelming admin stuff like answer email. It's an athletic event. The idea is to give yourself credit for things that may be commonplace or may be invisible but require a shitload of internal work. The world, the audience, will not cheer you on because they don't know what's going on. But you can. 

ALS is an athletic event. Functioning that was once automatic now has to be skillfully directed by a compassionate sentient attention. Balancing requires making sure that my weight is well distributed on the horizontal planes of my moving foot, and also that my pelvic floor and tailbone are properly compensating for the droop of my head, and also that my eyes are in line with my head even when tiny people or dogs are whipping around my legs or saying "good morning" in that friendly way that I should be grateful for but actually curse. I've thought about wearing a sign around my neck that says, "please, I can't talk, yes it is a beautiful morning, just keep moving and let me concentrate." 

I am not as miserable as you might think. In fact, I mostly enjoy the challenges. When I don't compare myself to normal or to how I once was then I am just adapting. If I can't reach something I use a stick to move it toward me, or stand on a block, or ask for help--also an athletic event for someone who was once aggressively independent. If my neck can't hold up my head, I use a brace. If my hand goes limp, I wait a few minutes and use that time to think about what I'm writing. 

For example, this week I was going to write about how good it feels to get notes from former patients/clients. Moments ago, while resting my hand, I realized how that is connected to this theme that asserted itself while I was walking in the park.

When we work with people, when we enter their minds with our own, we often don't know whether or how we are helping. It's a risk, like taking a step when I don't think I will fall but I might. I really might. How then can I trust myself?

From someone who left before I wanted her to:

"I've always admired the way you live your life. You've taught me a lot, not just in our sessions but from watching you seize your life and tackle your own challenges. I hope you continue to share your voice and your story for as long as you can and want to, and I want you to know that I'll be holding space for you, keeping you in my thoughts, and cherishing every insight and authentic feeling you are brave enough to share."

From another whom I accompanied through tragedy:

"You were life changing for me - as always, thank you... You share so much with us. We continue to learn. We join you in feeling sad and angry."

This may seem like bragging. And so, I am bragging. I need to remind myself of the validity of my internal experience. I can't do it alone. Last week I also bragged. A friend called me graceful, and an important comment on the post reinforced that. Thus, I am not independent of mind either. My compassion for myself, my trust in myself, is fed by what others perceive and reinforce. 

Back when I had just started Zen practice, I told a teacher that I was comfortable meditating alone but that interactions with people were a challenge. He laughed and said "we are born interacting." I get it; now I get it. Interaction is all there is. 

June 5, 2021

Comments

[zhanna]

You are Amazing! You are inspiring! You are Graceful! and I miss YOU!