A weird thing happened to me on Wednesday morning. I was in a rush to take off my walking boots (I’m at the stage in life where my bladder responds to seeing our front door like a horse catching sight of the stable). Instead of slowing down, bending over and untying the laces properly I tried to push the left boot off with my right foot. We’ve all done it. But the laces were caught in the hook eyelets and the boot wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder. When the left boot finally flew off my foot, it let go with such force that my right leg swung forward. I heard a very loud crack and felt an immediate, searing pain in my…well…to put it delicately…in my right buttock. And for the next forty-eight hours I was beyond miserable. Sitting hurt. Walking hurt. Thinking about sitting and walking hurt.

This morning the ache running from my tuchus to my heel is down to a grumpy growl. I discovered that standing was better than sitting, and sitting was better if my butt was parked on a bag of ice, and any movement was better with enough ibuprofen to make my liver work overtime.

And right about now we’re thinking, ‘so what?’. 

But this story isn’t about what happened to my body. It’s more about where my chattering monkey mind took me and the vulnerability we all feel when order is lost.

On Thursday morning, twenty-four hours after my injury, I decided to walk to the class I teach at the local assisted living community. If I take the trails it’s a lovely twenty minute stroll. The direct route takes ten minutes. I chose the direct route. My gait was slow and I had a pronounced limp. But taking the car or even taking the day off didn’t occur to me. Why on earth would I give in to the pain? Why would I choose rest? I was just taking my boot off!

A few blocks ahead, walking toward me, was a woman maybe half my age. Fresh from the gym, a delightful spring in her step, the picture of health.

I crossed to the other side of the street. I felt fat, unhealthy and ashamed. I felt judged but I know now the judgement was not emanating from a stranger walking home from the gym. It was coming from my own heart.

And that’s when my brain tumbled down the rabbit hole toward the cesspool of despair.

Because walking is my antidepressant. It’s my anti-anxiety medication. And if I can’t walk then what will become of me?

On Thursday morning my brain answered that question with another one. ‘Why bother’  my brain moaned.  ‘Give up’ my brain told me. ‘This is your life now’ it chided. ‘Everything is going to hurt…forever’ my brain teased. 

This cycle of self pity continued through the whole of Thursday. Because far be it from me to use what I know about pain and the brain and the stories we tell. Far be it from me to use the same knowledge I use to help others in order to help myself.

Today is a rainy Friday morning. There’ll be no walking today. And that’s ok. I’ve spent the past few hours reflecting on the last two days and coming to the realization that my reaction to an admittedly very painful accident was less about my aggravated sciatic nerve and more about the collective vulnerability we’re feeling but perhaps not acknowledging.

The world is a tragic, messy place right now. Since March of 2020 we’ve lived through  a chaotic series of events that seem to be escalating and it’s impossible to know when or if the shift that is necessary to right the apple cart – to bring us to a healing path – will ever happen.

Everything feels out of control. And in an uncontrollable environment we seek order. Until Wednesday morning I had order. Ben and I walked three to five miles every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. When I took off that boot order was lost. The loud crack I heard from my hip cracked the protective shell I keep wrapped around my psyche, too. It created a jarring chasm in me. Left me unprotected and vulnerable. It made me want to give up.

I wallowed. I have no problem with wallowing because after awhile it just gets boring and I come to my senses. Which is precisely what happened.

I remembered what I learned about accepting current conditions – not giving in to conditions but accepting that this is how things are for now – and still finding the strength to remain committed to moving through life according to the values we cherish.  

Conditions will change. Maybe for the better. Maybe not. Our values – those things that bring heart and meaning to our lives – are the bedrock to which we can anchor ourselves. Our values are always there. They bring order to chaos. They help us to remember who we are. They remind us that we are all capable of shining our good light into the world. 

My self-diagnosed sciatica will ease. Ben and I will be back to our walking schedule. We might even try Mint Springs tomorrow. In the meantime I will continue to park my tuchus on bags of ice and take ibuprofen as needed. And I will remember those things I value – humor and stillness, art and beauty, family and nature – and I’ll shine my good light into the world.