IMG_20150721_173959When I exhale pain radiates down the length of my arms.
It’s stress.
And it’s comforting in a way, to feel it like this.
Concretely.
I almost believe I could grab hold of it, and pull it out my fingertips.
Strands of sharp tinsel.


When I posted that on Facebook, a friend expressed concern, reminded me that women’s heart attack symptoms are different from men’s. And since there is always, in the back of my mind, a concern about inflammation and the damage done over the years, I went to the doctor. But the EKG was fine.

For all the meditation and relaxation techniques I know and use and teach, I am still completely out of touch with the way my body deals with stress. My mind still checks out of the situation, but the rest of my body takes it on. In January, with a mysterious spots all over my body, the doctor asked, “Are you under stress?”

“Not really.” I’d said without giving it any thought. Without giving the three mortgages and impending bankruptcy a thought. Without considering the other things in my life, which I won’t write about here.

“I’m fine.”

Someone commented recently that I seem happiest out in nature. Maybe it’s the distraction. The aches from the backpack, the sting from blisters, maybe they give my body something else to dwell on. The electric pain down my arms stops. Yes. It’s all in my head: the head bone (dis)connected to the neck bone, as the song goes. I need to take another look at the way I’m meditating. The way I am disassociating mind from body. It’s dishonest.


Flørli
is 4,444 steps up to the top of the cliff.

4,444 steep steps. And about halfway up, someone has carved into the wood, “Now, you’re tired.”

But you have to push on. Because the alternative is going down the 4,444 steep steps, which is a frightful thought.

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So you keep moving.

There are two distinct moments in my life that I recall – where I thought realised: “Now: I am happy.”

It wasn’t on this day.

In fact, neither day was a day where I felt that I had accomplished anything. That isn’t to say there weren’t days where I was overjoyed. Proud. Happy, in my experiences.

But on these two occasions: one, quietly driving home from work, planning dinner for my two small children and my (then) husband; the other, sitting on the couch in my own apartment, my kids grown and living elsewhere, my life comfortably poised for something new – I felt a slow wave of emotion, like settling into a pool of warm water. A conscious pause, halfway up a staircase, looking around and enjoying the view, the breeze, the feeling of muscles slightly torn and strengthening. Realising that, time was not standing still. Things were good now, but they would change, and even that was a good thing. The way things are supposed to be.

This feeling is my definition of gratitude. It involves an element of submission, an acceptance and appreciation. It is lying in Savasana, palms up and open.

And it’s letting go.

It’s about letting go of contexts mostly. Definitions of myself, and definitions of my perceptions.

I have a fear of growing old. Not growing older, mind you. I am mostly fine with that. It’s the rigidness that some people take on with age. They close down on their experiences. Solve the puzzles for themselves (and, they think, everyone else). Form opinions. They stop reading the article after the author gets to a point with which they disagree. They are afraid to push themselves, to tear all those muscle fibers just a bit.

“Now, you’re tired.” It’s a taunt. Keep going. Because it is a really bad idea to stay there, resting until darkness takes you. And an even worse idea to head back down the way you came. That soreness in your legs, is just them getting stronger.