When I walk long distances, I pay a price.
It’s a relatively minor one: an ache in my hip that sends tentacles down to my knee. It’s an annoyance, mostly. Sometimes it makes it hard to fall asleep.
I feel it after I take an hour’s walk on the beach on Sunday mornings, toes sinking down into cool sand or sliding over slick kelp. I get ready for these excursions knowing I’ll hurt afterwards, but the long line of sand along the shoreline is more than worth the price.
I know the roots of my aching hip: 15 years of studying ballet. My toes point out without me trying, and I carry my weight on the outer edges of my feet. Walking with that stance twists my hip in its socket. It makes a loud pop when I twist it back.
Sometimes, I try to think about my alignment when I walk. I consciously try to rotate my hip.
But I have to think about every single step.
Is my puny effort of will worth it? Will a few minutes of concentration do anything against decades of muscle memory? Can I really change how I journey through the world with a little willpower?
I’ve been thinking about healing lately. My family has been talking about habits we formed as parents and children back when I was too little to know what “dysfunction” meant. When I talk to my sister over the phone, I hear the hope in her voice, and in mine, that we can all relate differently, that we can journey together in new ways.
It’s been a few months of talking now, and my first flush of enthusiasm has run out. At the beginning, I felt excited to talk about hard stuff out loud. I felt freed from shame and secrecy and people-pleasing. I felt triumphant and brave and gutsy.
But when you finally admit that you wish the past had gone differently, you find grief rushing in. It’s like a law of physics: the harder you suppressed anger or sadness or dismay, the more it demands attention NOW…
Won’t you join me over at SheLoves to read the rest?
Four facts about the Bible that blew my mind