Month: May 2018

Gypsy

Gypsy

“You have the soul of a gypsy”, my mother told me. I was eight years old, and I longed to be a hobo; to ride the rails with a bindle stick slung over my shoulder, the red bandana a symbol of my nomadic life. I’d grown weary of the sameness of home. I yearned for change and adventure. Hobos didn’t have many rules, it seemed, and every day would feel new.

 I had a red bandana.  And I could find a stick.

 I find one that feels strong and rough against my skin. In the kitchen, I’m loading my bandana with crackers and grapes and Fruit Loops.  I announce to my mom, “I’m packing. I’m going to be a hobo”. Her face changes, like she’s thinking.  “Okay”, she says. “But hobos make their own way, honey. You’ll have to find your own food.”

 She’s right. It’s time to make my own way. There’s not much left to carry, as I walk down the road. It’s hot, and I’m not sure which way to go. I walk. Ten minutes. Fifteen. I’m a little scared. I lean up against a boulder, and slide down to sit. I pull my knees to my chest and put my head down to cry.

 I felt my mom before I saw her. She slid down the boulder next to me. Without looking up, I leaned in, and felt the skin of her shoulder against mine. I heard her soft voice. “No matter how far you go, love, I’ll always be here.” Eventually we walked, hand in hand, toward home.

 My mom taught me a lot about friendship that day. Like a safety net beneath an aerialist, my friends have remained a safe distance away, waiting to catch me when I fall. And I wait to catch them.

Athlete

I sat outside my son’s bedroom with my head in my hands. Justin had come home from Harborview’s trauma center about a month before. He’d be bedbound for five more. He survived seven surgeries during his month in the ICU, surrounded by broken bodies and unimaginable loss. The sadness of that place had weight, and we had brought that weight home. I felt crushed beneath it, the air dark and dense. Sitting motionless outside my boy’s room, I held my breath. I was under water.

The next morning, I got up before the sun rose and went outside to run. The rhythm of my footsteps became a meditation. Thoughts raced across my consciousness, like rapid-fire movie reels. My son is broken. I am broken.  I stopped, drawing in the cool air. I needed to mourn the loss of my son’s mobility. I needed to honor the health I’d never again take for granted.

I decided to run a triathlon. I’d never been an athlete; never run a race. But morning after morning, I’d show up. Swim. Bike. Run.

The morning of the race was warm, and thousands of people jockeyed for space in the transition area. I knelt; smoothed my towel, lined up my shoes. I bowed my head and whispered wishes to my son.

I wade in to the cool water. The sound of the air horn shatters the air. A tangled mass of bodies fights for space. Soon I got in to the rhythm of swimming. Four strokes; breathe. Four strokes; breathe. Out of the water, I ran to my bike. Socks and shoes were clumsy over my wet and sandy feet. The bike ride and run are civilized after the chaos of the swim, and in the rhythm, I find peace.

I came in 2,592ndplace. But in every way that mattered that day, I had won.

 

Athlete