Last night I fell asleep smiling, as one does, while reading the International Journal of Sports Physical Therapy. Earlier in the day, while hunting in the garage for a lightbulb, I paused to wistfully pet my squat rack and run my fingers along my Ionely barbell, swat longingly at the wooden rings that hung from the high bar. As he tends to do in the gym, the the Holy Ghost whacked me in the head and I began to wonder why I couldn’t, with my newest level of strength and pain, do upper body work on the rings? And if I could do that, why I couldn’t do other challenging things that have felt beyond my reach for so long?
After everyone went to bed, I stayed up searching the journals for articles to help me find some perspective on what I should and should not expect from myself now. I gathered all the evidence that proved that my body could do things, assuming I continued to build and protect my weakest places, right there in my garage, wrapped in the arms of my squat rack, on my rubber floor, surrounded by all my old iron friends.
And, of course, if you give a girl a squat rack, she’s going to want to coach…
That same charge I felt yesterday morning, woke up stronger this morning — an urge in all my parts to take off running. My body is excited to move. My brain wants to plan and build systems, re-work the homeschool plans for the fall, build a fresh budget, organize those crazy lightbulbs in the garage. My heart suddenly wants to pray and sing into microphones. I want to call up all of my old clients, or even find strangers on the street and just coach someone. I will coach anyone on anything right now, I will say all the encouraging words. I will set up my studio and write a book, any book, about all of the things.
It is like old nerves regenerating.
Tender. Could be temporary. Could be wiped out in seconds with one wrong move.
But the sensation is so welcome and so ALIVE it makes me cry. It flushes my cheeks red, makes my face hot, gives me Mosesface.
Why? Why right now?
Am I manic? You’re all thinking it. I’m thinking it. Because we’re good and careful and loving. And because, maybe.
But I think that the grace of God, the final discontinuation of Neurontin (which I have slowly tapered over the last month), the literal nerve regeneration in my back and leg, and the release of this vice grip of pain have made room for a little more oxygen to feed my flame. This isn’t a raging fire. This isn’t a spark out of place. It is simply a welcome flicker where I was worried about a smoldering wick.