When I first started practicing yoga, every move was filled with uncertainty and an exercise in self-exploration. I remember taking a big breath in, as the class started off with three om’s, and patiently holding it until someone other than me started it off. Today, however, I am thrilled to be the first to make my voice heard. It makes coming to the mat all the more joyous.
You know how, when you take on a new hobby or sport, you can sometimes get all gun-ho-let’s-go about it? It’s easy to do. Perhaps you stick with it. Perhaps you get burnt out. OR perhaps you take it to the next level, and the next, and the next until…you get injured. There is such thing as too much of a good thing.
Let’s say it’s a sport we are speaking of. Maybe, after you body scolds you for overdoing it, you give up your new-found love. Maybe you make adjustments and return to the sport with a wiser, more balanced, approach. OR maybe you ignore your body’s complaints, tell it to man-up, and continue what you’re doing.
We’ve all done it at one point or another. For me, my plans for the Boston to Big Sur Challenge took priority over the wiser, more balanced approach to running. A careful look at my exercise log reveals many entries where I complained of discomfort and/or pain (although mild) in my right ankle. And although I don’t regret moving forward with my [possibly] once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do something truly fabulous, I wonder if a change earlier in my training might have prevented me from having to break from running for so long.
It isn’t always easy to discern impending injury from the little aches and pains of taking on a new sport or, in my case, taking marathon training up to the next level. Things most likely would have been different if these little complaints were more obviously signs of impending doom.
Now, with no reason to push through, I find myself backing off from running with only the mildest of complaint when, on my bike, I clearly feel the sore, fatigued muscular complaint of my low back. I know that my prior injuries to the area — the automobile accident (rear ending) of 2006 and bulged disc injury during my 2nd pregnancy — leave the area more vulnerable to subsequent injuries. Still, I focused on the ankle even though I felt, deep down, that there was nothing wrong at all with my ankle.
And…was it warranted?
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Lately, it seems, I’ve been a little fixated on my boys growing up. They do that. I know. Still, it seems to be staring me in the face recently.
I remember when YaYa hit double digits (age wise). We made a big deal out of it. Tom ranted and I raved. We marveled at how he appeared to have doubled in height overnight, and took turns inspecting YaYa’s face for the arrival of blemishes on a daily basis for a week or so – as if they would appear merely because he was officially in his tweens. It was good fun.
Today, the significance of his age is pointed out by the simple fact that I now have to buy two boxes of candles to have enough to light one for each year we have been blessed to have him in our lives.
As my baby officially reaching his teens, I feel the push to let out the reigns a tad. Not a lot, mind you. He’s still my baby, you know.
On one hand, I want to encourage him to be autonomous yet I still want him to need me. While I want to foster independent thinking, I also want to be consulted for important matters. I want him safe from harm and yet, I don’t want to coddle him.
I am discovering that letting go of my hold on him is really a hard thing to do — much harder than when BoBo was this age. On a deeper level, this may have something to do with the fact that he is the last to leave the nest. It’s hard not to think about how when he does fly the coop, there will be no one left but me.
*sigh*
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Today, YaYa is 13 years old. Join me, please, in celebrating the gift of his life.
It’s not an uncommon occurrence that the majority of blog post in my feed reader are bloggers trying to come back from the land-of-the-lost. Sadly, most of the blogs in my feeds have had no posts at all in several months. I keep them in my feed hoping that they will return with a post now and again.
Others may argue with me, but I blame the social networking boom for the demise of blogging. Many of the inactive bloggers are active on “the networks.”
When I was a teen, the onset of menstruation was met with physical and mental protest. As far as I could see, there was just no good reason that women should be subject to nearly a week of being doubled over in pain.
Well, when childbirth came along, menstrual cramping seemed unworthy of complaint. Besides the fact that my body seemed to accommodate the change with a bit more grace, the pain paled in comparison to birthing a child. Marathons, for that matter, pale in comparison to child birth – at least in comparison to the birth of my first-born.
I guess I’ve been pretty fortunately that most months come and go without much whining. Yet, every once in a great while, a day will hit where I want to take a couple of Vicodin (perhaps do the unthinkable mixing with red wine), and either sink into a tub filled with hot sudsy water or into the fetal position and whimper. Today, is one of those days.
Why, you may ask, am I blogging about THIS? As if anyone really cares to read about it. You see, I am hoping that one or two of you will have some helpful hints on what might help relieve this pain. If there is an herbal tea I can drink, a yoga pose I can hold, or a certain way I could rub my tummy and pat my head to ease my woe-is-me-ailment, please leave a comment.