... And It Shows

Love in the Time of Corona #7

Some of you have never watched someone you love die of respiratory disease.

Some of you have never been awake at 3:30 on Thursday night, wondering how you were going to make sure all your payroll checks cleared when you passed them out on Friday.

Some of you have never travelled to a place where the government tells you what to wear, when to go out, who to associate with, and what to say every waking hour.

Some of you were not raised by people who lived through the depression, who know what life is like when the whole world's economy grinds to a halt.

Some of you have never held the hand of a 25 year old, listening to the life rattle out of his shrunken chest.

Or built a company on nothing but a plan and hard work, only to have politicians shut it down.

Or woke up with a prowler standing in your bedroom.

Or spent the night in the ER on oxygen because the person in the next cubicle came to work with the flu.

Some of you have never tried to imagine how terrified people are who are lie awake thinking about different demons than yours.

And it shows.

We're all scared shitless. Some of us are afraid we're going to die. Others because we might infect someone else and they could die. Some of us are afraid that the company we dreamed into existence will not survive another week of social isolation. Some are afraid that the job they left won't be there when the Angel of Corona finally passes over. And others remember our grandparents stories of scrounging coal from the railroad tracks so they could light the stove and heat the house and make coffee on winter mornings before the whole family, parents, grandparents, and children went out in the snowy streets looking for work.

Of course we're scared shitless. We'd be insane not to be. We're just all scared of different things.

Let's put aside the whole idea of "I refuse to live in fear." We know it's a lie before we click the send button. Of course we're afraid.

And it shows.

It shows in how quick to take offense we are. In how hard it is to feel like we've been heard and understood. It shows in how impossible it is to understand how people can make the choices that they make, or accept the limits they accept. It shows in the way our influencers tickle and trigger our fears to keep us alert and on edge and obedient. It shows in our lashing out. Our refusal to acknowledge doubts. Our hatred of strangers. Our deathly fear of getting it wrong and sinking in the storm.

But, fear will not get us through the storm. Fear IS the storm.

Each one of us is afraid, and nobody else can ever really understand what it's like to feel what we feel. Calling someone a fool because they don't fear the same things as you is like you telling them that they don't have a toothache because you have a sprained ankle.

There is no victory for us to win here. This war is lost. The field is littered with dead bodies and dead business and dead dreams and there are no winners in the Time of Corona. There will only be survivors.

But how will we survive? By winning the argument or the election? By breaking one another's hearts and wills? Will we survive by trying and failing to convince half of our neighbors that they are stupid? Will that leave us a world that was worth fighting for?

Or will we walk out of the valley knowing that we found a way to help one another through the dark?

Fear won't get us through. Love will get us through. Respect will get us through. Listening. Caring. Compassion for one another will get us through the Time of Corona. Love someone enough to believe that their fear is real, even if you can't feel a drop of it. Care about someone enough to know that they had a good reason to vote that way, even if you can't make a lick of sense of it. Feel for someone enough to help them find their own courage and strength, even if you aren't sure either of you has a crumb of either. Corona will never be a blessing. But we can learn how to bless one another, even if it really is the end of the world.

If we can't learn that, if we can't learn to love each other, fears and all, we will have wasted the Time of Corona.

We may survive. But not as winners. We will be the most contemptible kind of losers. And you're damn right it will show.

A Week of Comings and Goings

Survivors, Warriors, Victors

Graduation Time

While many of my friends were sending their children back to school, we at LIVESTRONG at the YMCA were celebrating our participants return out into the world. For twelve weeks, they laughed together, sweated together, wept together, and worked toward the day when each could look back at the accomplishments and say with pride, "I did that." I love this program. Everyone who has ever had cancer should have the chance to be a part of it. (If you are so moved, I invite you to support out work using the form on the right.)


The Value of Names

For some time, it was a source of embarrassment, and even shame to me that I did not know the names of most of the people in the classes I teach at the Y. I mean, I have seen some of them four or five times a week for almost three years now. It just feels disrespectful to me to see someone so often and have to call them, "Buddy," or "Sister," or "Sugar," (you might not want to use that one north of the Mason-Dixon, by the way.) So this summer, I decided it was  time to make a change. Every class begins and ends with the ritual Remembering of the Names. The participants are amazingly good sports about it. We always share a smile when I get them right, especially when we're outside the pool. ("I hardly recognize you with your clothes on!") An unexpected side benefit is that they are learning each others' names, too. It's a little thing, and it isn't the same as actually knowing a person, but it's a start.

Wellllll... Yes, and no...

Love and Hope


Someone who has been a faithful friend to me for a long time, and has had a stormy voyage on the seas of love has finally found safe harbor. Seeing their happiness gives me joy and hope for my own future. Love is always possible. And it is never too late.


On the Other Hand...

You know that book where Colonel Brandon just hangs around for years, being a great guy until Marianne realizes that he is her soul-mate? Turns out that just showing up in a real woman's life every few months makes her feel really uncomfortable and creepy. And so ends the career of an unintentional, well-meaning stalker. Sometimes it's just better to smile, say thank you, and move along. (different lady, by the way. I'm not that creepy.)

Should have studied harder...

Good News and Bad News

Experienced the double edged sword of negative test results from my sleep study last week. Turns out that I'm actually quite good at sleeping. I move a little more than usual, but am well withing normal ranges as far as breathing, snoring, alpha waves, and REM sleep. So while I was glad to learn that I won't have to wear a CPAP machine for the rest of my life, I got to hear the unsettling news from the doc: "I have no explanation for your excessive fatigue." Sometimes, even bad news is better than no news. So it's back to the drawing board.

Over Fifty Singles

Birds of a Ruffled Feather

I am part of several special communities: show folks; cancer folks; depressed and bipolar folks. Our common struggle helps us find our own strength. Well, I find I am part of yet another tribe: divorced folks. Being over fifty and single can feel like you've been dropped onto another planet where the inhabitants are all strange creatures who are at once suspicious and fearful of one another. Nothing works the way it did when you were dating in your twenties. I am finding friends and even, Lord, help me, a "singles group," where we aren't on the make, just hanging out together, learning how to be whole people again. When I was first alone, I thought life would never feel real again until I'd found someone to hug and kiss and share breakfast with. But I'm starting to think that there it might be a good thing to spend some time becoming a person I can love instead. Sounds profound? Trust me, it's a work in progress.

Just Keep Learning

The first half of my year was dedicated to professional development. I read, traveled, took classes, and earned certifications that have made me a better qualified, (and better paid,) teacher and fitness trainer. For the rest of 2015, I am investing in my artistic life. When I was 10 years old I started singing in church, "impressing the grown-ups." Unfortunately, the ego boost turned into a kind of neurotic arrogance that refused to accept any criticism of my voice. I had several teachers who tried to help me, but I always balked, terrified that this one thing I did really well might not be perfect. But life is the best teacher of all. If you can get to your fifty-fifth birthday without learning humility, you have wasted your life. So, I have found a vocal teacher. After all those years, I am finally learning to sing. I don't know how this will turn out. Maybe I'll never be good enough to impress anyone but the people in the pew in front of me at church. But who knows? If I can become a marathoner and an aerobics teacher, there's no telling what other surprises I might have inside me.

If I've Seemed a Bit Weepy Lately...

Courage

The doctors left the port in her chest, so that she wouldn't need a new IV every time she got a chemo treatment. Some days, her left arm is so weak, she can hardly bend her elbow. Last week,they told her that the disease was not responding, and is much worse than they thought. She needs radical surgery, but they can't do it until she is stronger. She works out as if her life depends on it. Which, in a way, it does. I was spotting her in the weight room this week. Shoulder press with dumbbells. Hard for anybody. Nearly impossible for her. Our faces were inches apart when I saw the tear roll down her left cheek, same side as the tumor. "It hurts." "What hurts?" I asked quickly. You don't take pain lightly in my business. "Everything." I was about to stop her, then my glace fell to her jaw. It was set steel cable tight. "Two more reps," she growled, her lips barely moving. She ground two more presses out like an NFL linebacker, then dropped the weights to the floor, leaned into my chest, and soaked my shirt with tears of courage.

Thanksgiving

He was my best friend for a long time. A class mate. An ordained minister. A Christian education director. A flamboyant, joyful man, trapped behind the barely latched closet door that his church forced him to hide in. He was the one who reassured me that in spite of my curiosity, artistic temperament, and unsettling dreams, I was most definitely not a homosexual. One night, just after Thanksgiving break, he passed a joint and rubbed his eyes dry with the heel of his hand as he told me about coming out to his fireplug of an ex-Marine father. He trembled in fear as the old man smoked quietly for a long time, finally breaking the silence when he asked, "Ok. So, what is it that you do, exactly?" They talked long past midnight, gradually unpacking fears, truths, and a couple of stories about life in Greenwich Village in the 70's that still make me cringe. My friend was prepared to be disowned. Instead, he found a father's confused, but unconditional love. By the time he finished telling me about it, we were both crying tears of gratitude, cross-legged on the floor of his dorm room.

Bear Hug

The week before your first Marathon is not the time to discover a lump in the shower. No time for this shit right now. That Sunday, he broke four hours, and hoped the nub would go away. Three months later, he joined the 1%: only 2200 men are diagnosed with breast cancer each year. "Lucky me."  In spite of his initial denial, the docs said that they caught it early. Minor surgery seemed successful, but left enough doubt room for error that several rounds of chemo followed. Hair loss. Sunken eyes. Disappearing muscles. See-saw emotions. Weight gain. "Less than a year ago, I finished a marathon. Now I have to stop and rest when I walk to the john. I have to run again You have to help me run again." "I'm only a trainer," I told him the day we met. "I can't take a step for you. But as long as you're willing to run, I'll run beside you." For months, he was always early to class. inundating me with questions about nutrition, and exercise. He banged out reps in the weight room. Rocked the rowing machine. Made the stationary bikes hum. Soaked the treadmill belt with sweat before the rest of us were even warmed up. He was dragging through the front doors as I was clocking out after teaching an aerobics class this morning. "What's with you?" I ribbed. "You look like you've been pulling a plow." He glanced around the lobby with a weary sparkle, as if to be certain we were alone. "Last night. 3 miles in 32." Runners and cancer survivors: we have a shorthand all our own. We wrapped our arms around one another in the sunlit lobby: a big, back-slapping bear-hug that quickly became the kind of long embrace a proud father gives his son just before it's time to leave for college. "You son-of-a-bitch," I whispered. "Guess you'll have to run by yourself. I can't keep up with you now." He punched me in the arm, laughing. I was careful not to raise my head until I could duck into the men's room. I soaked a brown paper towel with salty pride.

My Friend, the Godly Atheist

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us... Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters,^* are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister^* whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters^* also. ~ 1 John 4:7-12, 20-21 

I have a friend who is an Atheist. He does not believe in God, and he most particularly does not believe in religion. He does believe in science, intelligence, compassion, and justice. Yesterday, after a group of religious people entered the offices of a newspaper in Paris and murdered 11 journalists because they thought God was offended by things the paper had printed, my friend wrote on Facebook:

Goddamn religion. Makes me want to puke.

Considering the news from France, it was hard to disagree with him.

Which is why I was especially gratified to find this passage from the first letter of John in this morning's lectionary. They were words I needed to hear: words that everyone needs to hear: especially those of us who embrace religion as a source of spiritual and moral guidance.

Everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. What an amazing and radical idea to preach to a church that was at that time being persecuted into extinction by the Roman empire. There is no call to defend God. No enlisting of Christian Soldiers. To the contrary, John says Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters,^* are liars... This is tough stuff to swallow. The implication here is obvious and in a way terrifying. Whoever hates another person, hates God.

How do we love Christ? We obey his commandments. And how do we do that?

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. ~ John 13:34

 Would Jesus murder a newspaper reporter? Would he lie to a customer to keep their business? Would he cheat on his wife or beat his child or collect guns or fight against the "War on Christmas?" Would he turn his eyes away from the beggar at the traffic light or the drunk who is passed out on the curb? Would Jesus gossip or spread stories about people that he didn't know were true? Would he change the way he spoke or the jokes he told, depending on who was in the room? No, he would not have done any of these things, because they express disrespect and contempt, and whoever disrespects a person they can see, can never love the God they cannot see.

If we want to love our invisible God, we have no choice. We must love the people whom God has placed before us. Love is our business in this world. Maybe if we would mind that business, our religion would be more palatable to my friend who does not know the church, but knows God better than he may realize.

Let us love one another... For love is from God.

Bob

When Running Loves You Back

Running is my teacher. She is patient and forgiving, but also relentless and rigorously honest. She welcomes me back, even after a long absence, but she never forgives snow days, and she never gives extra credit. Her grades are hard to earn, but hard lessons have a way of rooting  more deeply than the easy ones do. 

I love to run long distances. Love it. Love. It. Two miles? Four miles? Six miles? Yeah, they can feel like work sometimes. Those routine runs that you squeeze in before dawn or over lunch or after work, just to keep up your conditioning. The ones where you have one eye on your watch because you're shooting for the right training pace, or you're checking your cadence or you have a time goal to hit... they can be a chore some days. 

But the long ones... oh the Long Slow pleasure of ten or sixteen or twenty miles on a Saturday morning... whether you're watching the fog burning off the hills, or dodging the bread trucks as they make their deliveries... The initial warm up as your heart begins to race, then calm itself to find its steady rhythm. The mindful attention to every curve and bend, each hill and rise making your eyes widen with anticipation or narrow with delight. The fire deep inside that flares or smolders, fueling muscles and nerves as you stride silently along the road, feeling texture and temperature through your feet, your hands, your face. And ultimately comes the moment you disappear. You are no longer breathing; you are breath. No pain. No will. No thought. You are pure presence. You are no longer running. You simply are.

Once you've been there, you want to go back. You dream about it. It's a holy place. But the chances to get there are rare. And they don't come cheap.

It takes time. 

Lots of time. You have to invest the hours. You have to earn the miles. You don't run twenty-six point six just because you want to. You have to earn it. You have to run eighteen first. And fifteen. And ten. Not just once, but many times. 

Running rewards respect... Disrespect her and she will humble you. With pain. With setbacks. With injuries. You're going to doubt yourself. You don't have the strength. You don't have the legs. Too slow. Too fat. Too far behind. Your heart will break along the way. It will break. And when that happens, you have to learn to keep running.

You have to learn to run with a broken heart.

And that takes trust.

You have to trust yourself. You will get stronger. You will. Every step will make you stronger. Believe it. Your heart will learn to beat again. Injured joints will mend. Burning lungs will clear. They will. You have to trust that. You have no choice. You can trust, or you can quit. Because only your trust will keep you out there on the road. In the weight room. In the whirlpool. Going wherever you have to go, doing whatever you have to do to earn HER trust. 

She has to learn to trust you, too. Because you see, she is more than a teacher. She has secrets you can only guess at... and stories you've never heard before. She will show you things inside yourself that you didn't know were there. And she will give you parts of herself that you never imagined could exist. She will tease you, amuse you, frustrate you, lead you on, and shut you down. And one day, if you are faithful and lucky, she will open her arms, and give you the most sacred part of herself.

In my life, running and I have gone to heaven together. But always on her terms. She has no use for my good intentions or heartfelt desire. She doesn't care about what I've written or the books I've read. She needs to know me, and needs me to know her. She needs to know that I will be there. That I will give her my time. That I will honor her trust.

Only then will she open her arms to me and welcome me into her heart. 

There is a place out there on the road. Marathoners call it "The Wall." Physiologists will tell you that it's the place where your glycogen stores are exhausted and there is nothing left in the tank for the engine of your body to use for fuel. You hit the wall and you crash. You bonk. You fail. Nothing but will, training, and insanity can get you past The Wall. 

But if you are lucky, she will be there waiting for you. She will let you keep going. You don't earn those miles. . Those are the ones she gives you. They come from her heart.

That's when you've learned your lessons. That's when running loves you back.

To See and Be Seen

I've been contemplating this guy for a few days now. In the waning days of winter, I used an old lion for my profile picture on Facebook. But with the first day of spring, I wanted to make a change. I have always identified with these beautiful animals. Their strength. Their ferocious loyalty. When you grow up big and maybe a little too sensitive for your own good, you don't really connect with the cheetahs and the rabbits. So you can either resent the "big ape" thing, or else embrace it and make the best of what you have. I was never very good at chest pounding or swatting fighter planes out of the sky, but the dark browed, broad shouldered scowl came in handy on the subway a couple of nights. It's good to have it in the repertoire when you need it.

But ferocity isn't what attracted me to Old Silverback here. It was his eyes. They seemed to see. As much as I would love to be the kind of guy who sweeps the pretty girl off her feet and carries her to the top of the Empire State building, I think I'd rather be one who can look at her the way this fellow is looking. To see. To regard. To accept. To respect.

He isn't seeing himself in her. His failures. His fears. Those aren't eyes that imagine and project. They are eyes that embrace and perceive. He isn't afraid to know the truth. He isn't afraid to see what's really there.

Maybe that is because he isn't afraid to be seen. When I consider those strange, yet familiar eyes, I see open windows that let the truth pass through in both directions. He is able to know, because he is willing to be known. His strength is his defenselessness. 

He seems like the kind of guy who isn't afraid to take the time to get to know you. Or to give you all the time you need to do the same thing.

I want to be that kind of an ape. One who can look without staring. Who can see without judging. Who regards each detail with curiosity and reverence, and treats your love as a sacred trust, a holy exchange of personhoods.

Too often, instead of a gorilla I have been a chattering carnival monkey. Grabbing and snatching. Clinging to scraps and squirrreling them away as if I were certain that the supply could never last. Too many times, I have blurted and blundered my way out of love with impatience. "Take this," I cry. "Take me. All of me. Now. Today." As if love were a desperate race against time. 

But the monkey isn't pressed for time. He is haunted by fear. "Take me or leave me," he cries, " But for god's sake, get it over with. Don't make me wait for the rejection that I know is coming anyway." He thinks he's being brave, stripping naked for you to see. But really, he is a coward. He doesn't have the courage to wait for you to undress him yourself.

So I chose this beautiful old Mountain Gorilla to be my spirit guide for the spring. I hope he teaches me to see and be seen. I want to learn his courage and confidence. I want to learn his quiet strength and his tender patience. 

When I contemplate those eyes, I see... I suppose the word I'm looking for is "Presence." He isn't thinking about what's next. He isn't a million miles away. When Old Silverback looks at you, he says, "I am here with you. I see you. See me." 

If that isn't love, what is?

Links in a Broken Chain

I'm trying so hard to gather all these thoughts into paragraphs. But  real life tragedy is much more difficult to organize than the literary kind.

An addict isn't any more weak or wicked or villainous or sinful than a sober person. An addict is just someone who hurts, and is willing to try anything to create some space between their heart and the pain.

I don't believe that great artists necessarily become addicts because of their genius or their capacity for deep feeling. But I do think people who feel deeply often turn to art as a way to try and make sense of the feelings that the world has no other place for. And addicts feel both joy and pain to an unbearable degree.

Stations of the Cross, #9 Jesus Falls a Third Time
John Ilg

It is both inexcusably naive and terribly cruel to sit in judgement of another's inability to stand up under the weight of their own cross. Or to judge their cross based on the weight of your own.

Suffering is not currency. There are no mitigating circumstances that make a celebrity's pain worth less than a homeless junkie's. And no, you would not trade a day of  your life for Philip Seymour Hoffman's.

The difference between hiding inside a gallon of ice cream or a fifth of bourbon or a 60 hour work week or a carton of Marlboros or a needle full of smack is only one of degree. It's just that you don't find dead food junkies with a needle full of Krispy Kremes hanging out of their arm.

Accepting that you are powerless is not the same thing as admitting you are a victim. There's a reason there are TWELVE steps to sobriety, not just one.

Addicts have children. They have parents. Friends. Lovers. Mentors. Neighbors. Fans. And while death is the end of an addict's suffering, it is the beginning of a whole new chapter of pain for the ones left behind.

It is very hard not to hate the people we love, for not loving themselves more.

Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind toward some resolution which it may never find. ~ Robert Anderson

The only way for tragedy to have any meaning is if we make it a source of courage, of compassion, of inspiration. Watching "Capote" made me want to be a better actor. I need learning and writing about the death of this blessed but unhappy man to make me a better friend, son, lover, and brother.

Linda, Willy, Biff
New York Daily News

I am sad that I won't get a chance to see your Willy Loman, or your Torvold, or your Lear. I am sad that I won't ever get to shake your hand and thank you for the hours I spent in dark cinemas, my jaw slack with amazement at your work.  I am sad that your life was so very full of suffering. But deep down, I'm glad that you are finally free from the pain. 

If I seem a bit confused and scattered about my feelings, it may be because deep, deep down, there is a secret part of me that envies your freedom just a little bit... And that scares the living shit out of me.

I am alive. And you are dead. And that doesn't say a damn thing about you or about me. All I know is that the only reason I'm not in that hole with you is that God sent me people who loved me and showed me that my life was worth loving. And before I throw my little handful of dirt onto the box and turn back toward the world that tore your heart apart... I just want you to know that your struggle makes me want to live even more... to love even more... and to be a source of the kind of hope and courage that you, my brother, were never able to find. Just in case the next PSH crosses my path one of these days...

Peace,

Pennsy

To Be a Light, Not A Shadow

A New Voyage

Here are the money quotes from one of the all-time good news/bad news letters I've ever received.

After reviewing all of the information carefully, we have decided that your health has improved since we last reviewed your case and you are now able to work... We realize that your condition prevents you from doing any of your past work, but it does not prevent you from doing work which is less demanding... You are no longer disabled... your last payment will be for 10/2013.

Well, then. Here's a new adventure for Pennsy. Thanks to my Social Security Disability Insurance, I was able to continue to have an income throughout my recovery from cancer. I have been able to devote myself and my energy to learning a new profession, and to building my body far beyond the strength and endurance I ever knew as a young man. During my recent mental health crisis and separation from my wife, SSDI has been the only thing keeping me off of the charity roles. I would have had no medical insurance this summer without it. I am grateful. But in a few weeks, that part of my life will come to an end.

The good news: As of today, I am officially no longer "Disabled." Many people never live to say that. My doctors report that I am strong enough to return to full time work. I've been to enough funerals this year to know how lucky I am to hear those words, too. I have the opportunity to begin a new voyage, and I have two months grace to get under weigh.

The bad news: I have yet to prove that I can actually work a full time job without physical or mental collapse. And I have 8 weeks to convince somebody (and myself) that I can be a productive and valuable employee who is worth at least the money I've been getting from SSDI for the past three years. The people who know me best, know only too well how very far and hard I can fall.

My initial response to the news was powerful and violent. Was this the last straw? Had life finally broken my heart? Was it time to give in and let the depression win? I though long and hard about what would happen to me when there was no more money. As it has done so many times before, my depression whispered "suicide" in my ear. For a while, it seemed like the best solution; the only solution; but the thought of Mrs P discovering me after days of silence and the phone call she would have to make to my mother changed my mind. They don't deserve that. Both have fought too hard and for too many years to keep me alive through both cancer and mental illness. And I thought of the kids at the Y. The kids I run with. the people in the classes I teach. Who would have to explain to them that Mr. Bob had done such a thing? What about the people who believed in me at the Y when any other employer would have been glad to be rid of me? I thought of the Strong Eight: the women who fought cancer beside me as we laid the foundation for the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program together, two summers ago. We trusted one another with our hearts. How could I do this thing that would almost certainly break theirs?

And if there were enough people in my life who cared that much... people who mattered that much to me... surely there was a reason for me to keep on fighting for my life.

You know who you are. I woke up Saturday morning because of your love. It's as simple as that.

Yesterday, on Facebook, after a long, long sleep, I posted "I finally have the will. Lord, show me the way." And that is my prayer. God made me wait a long time, but I at last have a reason to live. I will be a light in this world, not a shadow. I don't know how I'll be making money on November 1. But I know what I'll be doing.

Somehow, somewhere, I'll be helping people to fight for their lives, as I must do, as we all must. "The ones who give up... they all die," the doctor said. Physiology and personal loss be damned. I'm not giving up on my people... or on myself.

I'm going to work. That's my next voyage.

Peace,
Pennsy

Love: The Glorious Maybe

In a month, I will be 53 years old. And in many ways, it feels like I'm starting my life over from scratch. I'm full of questions.

How much money can I save before I'm 65? 70? Will it matter?

Am I ever going to have a full time job again?

What other changes am I going to have to make in order to live below my means?

Am I ever going to have a wife again?

Will I ever make love?

And just how does a post-middle aged gray-beard meet women who are single, sane, and not young enough to be his daughters?

Will my ability to learn and remember ever come back?

Will my energy?

Will my cancer?

Will my faith?

Worries? I don't think of them as worries. They don't keep me up at night. They don't make me anxious or angry or afraid. But these questions... they are on my mind. I know a man who spent weeks after his divorce sleeping with a loaded rifle next to his bed. He was waiting to work up the courage to put the barrel in his mouth. Thankfully, he never did, and before long, he met and married the love of his life. I know another, well into his 70s now, who still refers to his ex as "my wife." He has no rifle, but he has a bottle and a pack of cigarettes and has been using them both like a gun for years. I am not there. And I'm not going there. That's a cliff whose crumbling edge I have explored quite enough in my life, thanks. Whatever life has in store for me, I intend to be around to drink it it.

They are not worries... more like puzzles. Like the Rubic's Cube that used to be on coffee tables or the little wooden triangle with the golf tees that you try to solve before they bring you your dinner at Cracker Barrel, these questions occupy my mind from time to time, then I put them down and move on to whatever is next in the present.

My shrink calls it mindfulness. It's being aware of what's happening now, acknowledging the difference between what's real, and what's only in my head. I read one of those Facebook pearls last night that hit home: "Worry is a waste of imagination." It's true. If God is our role model... if our goal is to imitate our Creator, then worry is misuse of the most important creative tool we have. Even the dullest of us is blessed with imagination. using it with love may be our most important goal.

The truth is, we can not help but see possibilities in our world. It seems to me that the trick is looking for possibilities for love rather than fear. God did not create us out of fear, but out of love. Our universe is not a hiding place, it is a work of art by the great Artist. My life can be a tragedy, a comedy; an epic poem or a joyful song. It all depends on how I choose to apply my imagination, the glorious ability to see more than what is here and now.

It isn't about turning my back on reality. It's more like seeing things as they really are, then looking deeper for the loving God who set them in motion. It's asking the What If questions that lead toward love.

What if I stay strong and excited enough to keep working for the rest of my life?

What if I can simplify my life so money doesn't matter quite so much?

What if I learn to live at peace with myself, so I can be a more complete part of my next relationship?

What opportunities will my health and my history offer me for service and inspiration to others?

How much stronger will my faith be when I have passed through this dark valley?

It isn't just changing the words... it's changing the intention. I intend to live. To love. To stay sane. To serve God.

There are a lot of circumstances in life that I can't do a thing about. The way I treat life isn't one of them.

How many times have I wished for one more chance in the last 53 years? Good news... I just got it. They say youth is wasted on the young. "If only I had known then what I know now." OK, life, old chum... now I know. I may never be young again, but I can look at you through young eyes. My heart will never be unbroken; the scars will heal, but never disappear; but that doesn't mean I can't love with all the passion of my youth. The years are slowly wearing down my joints and muscles and synapses, but I can fight them every step of the way by keeping strong and fit and active.

Some people respond to tragedy by dying prematurely, then waiting for their body to catch up. I choose another path. I'm going to live every second I have left, seeing what is, and imagining what could be, always trying to see life the way a loving Artist sees it.

We can focus our eyes on impossibilities, or possibilities. It's our choice. This morning, I'm choosing life. Love. The glorious Maybe. What if God really does have more in mind for me than I can possibly ask or imagine?

Peace,
Bob

#468: A Legacy of Love

Edna Givens
1940 - 2013

I attended another LIVESTRONG at the YMCA sister's funeral yesterday. It was a joyous, sometimes even raucous celebration of a life well lived. Edna Givens didn't waste a minute of her life.

She was a nurse. She was a wife and a widow. A mother and grandmother. Edna didn't just go to church, she lived the church. Sunday morning service was just the beginning for her. She was a leader for a group of women who served in their community. Feeding. Clothing, Healing. After her time as a participant in the program at the Y, she served as a mentor for other survivors. Her two sons are leaders in their own rights. The church was packed with mourners who seemed motivated more by thanksgiving than grief.

Cancer had to take three shots at her before she lost her life, but as the preacher said, her loss was a victory.  She lost this life, but gained a place with her Savior. We lost her company for a time, but will never lose the inspiration and the power she gave to the world. Love is her legacy.

There isn't a second to waste. Not in a life that can end so quickly. One of the things that the past few weeks (!) has taught me is that life happens all of a sudden. Yes, sometimes things change gradually, but sometimes it happens in a flash. A conversation overheard. A piece of news that slips out. A driver who misses the light changing. A word that turns your life upside down.

For God's sake, you could lose everything you have before you finish reading this sentence. Don't waste a second on anything but love. Don't spend a drop of your life fighting for the things that death is going to take away from you. Love. That's what Jesus did. That's what Edna did.

Build a legacy of love. What better use can you make of your short time on this earth?

Peace,
Bob

#465: What We Are Not Now

It's getting to the point where I'm no fun any more. I am sorry.

Yesterday's session with Mike, my  therapist was especially difficult. Tearful. Which probably means that we were on to something. Let me try to wrestle with what I think that might have been.

Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud, "I am lonely,"

The tears are evolving. A few weeks ago, they were tears of shame. Tears of grief. Tears of loss. Now, they are tears of fear. Of loneliness. I cry because I feel like an empty cup where love and laughter once overflowed. Then, I grieved for the loss of people I loved. Now I ache in the empty places where they once lived. The suffering is still real, but it carries a kind of hope along with it. Pain can change, can soften over time.

Remember what we've said and done and felt about each other.

Because we are human, we cannot choose but to remember. When the wounds of loss are fresh, reflecting on the past can sting like alcohol on a skinned knee. The pain of remembering is worse, more intense than the pain of the loss itself. It isn't just the emptiness that hurts. It's knowing that those beautiful times are gone and will never be repeated. No, we cannot choose but to ache at those memories, but what we can choose, and time is our friend in this, we can choose how we respond to them. 

Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now. 

And there it is. Stephen Stills' words have been ringing like his guitar in my mind for the past few days. He wrote Suite: Judy Blue Eyes as an expression of his own grief at the imminent loss of his lover. If you let yourself get caught up in the musical hooks of this great song, it feels like a toe tapping celebration. But I hear something more. I hear a man fighting for his life against an enemy I know well.  Depression is a murderer; he is also a liar. One of his favorite lies is that our past and our future are the same. The things that have gone badly for us, the patterns we discern are doomed to repeat themselves. The good we have lost will never return, and whatever good may come in the future is bound to be lost as well. 

Tearing yourself away from me now, you are free and I am crying,

This does not mean I don't love you, I do

That's forever, yes, and for always.

And there is the first part of the answer. Though the loss is forever, so is the love. Depression wants you to believe that the love leaves with the beloved, but that is not true. Love is the force at the center of the universe. God is love. Love, once given, can never be withdrawn. Even when a relationship comes to a stormy, angry end, the love that was set into motion in that relationship remains, like a child born of a short lived romance. Love lives, even without the company of the lover. Presence can come and go. Love is for always.

Something inside is telling me that I've got your secret,

Are you still listening?

Fear is the lock, and laughter the key to your heart

And I love you.

"Fear is the lock..." And so it is. Fear shuts our hearts up tight. Keeps us safe in our fortress. Fear remembers only the hurt, not the love. Fear has not hope for the future, only dread for a past that is fated to repeat itself. But laughter, true laughter shakes the heart's doors open so it can receive the things only an open heart can know. Compassion. Delight. Serenity. Yes, even pain. Only an open heart can be hurt, but the price of letting fear lock up our hearts is so much greater than pain. Because a closed heart has no way for love to come in. And a heart that holds no love is wasted space.

I am yours, you are mine,
You are what you are,
And you make it hard.

The things and people we lose... they are never really gone. If we loved them with truly open hearts, then they changed us, we changed one another in ways that will never go away. Life happens. Tragedy. Happiness. Celebration. Grief. Each moment, no matter how dark or frightening, is a blessing to be savored for itself. If we let fear fix our gaze on yesterdays gone, terrified of tomorrows that have not yet come, then we let our hearts be locked against the beautiful possibilities that today has to offer.

Did I lose a job once? Yes. I can work in fear of losing this one, or I can work with an open, loving heart, drinking every sweet blessing that today's work has to offer.

Did I lose a friend? Yes. Each of us has our own ship with its own course. We travel together for a time, and then life may part us. If we are wise, we will not waste a second of our journey together travelling in fear of separation. Since I'm preaching from the book of Stills today, I'm reminded of another lesson. "Love the one you're with." God sends us people for a time, and sometimes takes them away again. Let the few precious moments we share be filled with laughter and love, not fear.

Have I lost my mind? Yes, I have lost control of my thoughts and emotions. sometimes for weeks at a time. i can look back and see patterns, but my past does not have to be my destiny. Thoughts can change. The way we cope can change. Mike is helping me to understand how my thinking produces the episodes I experience. Is my depression partly orgainic? Yes, probably. But it can be fed and thrive if I keep my heart locked up and fearful. Bad brain chemistry can give me a bad day or two. Bad thinking can send me into the shadows for months. Healthy thinking, loving mindful living can help me to live each moment as it comes, grateful for the blessings of the past without being fearful of the possibilities the future holds. I can learn. I am learning.

We are learning together.

Peace,
Pennsy

#377: Don't Wait Till You Get Cancer

Don't wait till you get cancer,
To decide why you want to stay alive,
To live as if you mattered,
To embrace what is precious.

Don't wait till you look Death in his unblinking eyes,
To start living,
As if every moment were a chance,
To help a miracle happen.

Before you need an army standing by your side,
Fighting for your life,
As if your life were worth the trouble,
Start fighting for yourself.

When you wake up in the morning
And the day begins, no matter how much you dread it,
Trust that there is something wonderful in it,
Just because you woke up.

Sweat the small stuff,
A friend's broken heart, A stranger's tear,
As if you were meeting the most important person in the universe,
Because that's just what you are doing.

 Being broken is not a sin,
Staying broken is;
Find your portion of strength
And healing will follow.

Pour yourself out to the world,
And you will be an empty vessel;
Fill yourself to overflowing,
Become a fountain of blessing.

God created everything and called it good,
Take Him at His word;
You are a beloved creation,
Made in the image of holiness.

Don't wait till you get cancer,
To stop hurting yourself,
To ask "Why?"
To pick your battles,
To dance your dance;

Choose
What you want to love,
Where your heart will be,
What you want to become,
Whom you will serve;

Take
Life from your Maker,
Humility from your victories,
Compassion from your suffering;

Give
Hope to the fearful one,
Comfort to the sufferer,
Company to the lonely,
Courage to the battered.

Cancer changed my life;
I am a better man than I have ever been;
I know now what I have always known;
I've stopped living as if there are more important things than love.

Don't wait till you get cancer,
To live;
Don't waste another second of your beautiful life;
Every moment is a chance,
To help a miracle happen.

Peace,

Pennsy

#366: What's Left After Goodbye...

The trouble with people is that they go away. Nobody sticks around forever. Grandparents die. Parents let you grow up and move out of the house. Your summer romance goes back to school. Your shrink moves to Colorado for the skiing. I don't like saying goodbye. And this week, I have a couple of pretty big ones to say.

Today is the last meeting of my LIVESTRONG at the YMCA group. I signed up because they promised a free Y membership for three months, and a chance to work with some trainers and instructors who I figured could help me get ready for my half-marathon. I wound up falling in love with a bunch of women who I'll never forget.

The one who survived 4th stage lung cancer, and can lift MY weight on the leg press.

The one who came to the gym looking a little weary because she'd just had a radiation treatment.

The one who went out and bought a pair of those goofy Vibram toe shoes for a treat.

The one who didn't like to shimmy in Zumba because it made her breast hurt after chemo.

The one who cries when she talks about what it's like to train survivors.

The one who has beaten cancer three times, and is tough enough to whip it another three hundred.

I thought I was a pretty bad dude for outlasting cancer and running a 10K. I'm a wimp next to these champions. We'll stay in touch on Facebook, and they are putting an alumni class together that will meet once a week, but it isn't going to be the same. Today, we'll swim, and eat, and laugh and cry together. Then we're going to paint one of the walls in the lobby yellow and hang up the first of what will be many class pictures on the new "LIVESTRONG wall." Everyone who comes into the building will know that something remarkable happens there, and everyone who loves a survivor will know that there is an opportunity for them to be a part of that remarkable thing. Goodbyes are hard, but leaving that kind of a legacy softens the blow.

Then there's Dee. Dee is my cancer nurse. Every cancer patient should have one. Dee was mine. You deal with lots of nurses and doctors and techs and administrators when you're fighting cancer. But there's always one who can take you by the hand and lead you through the dark. That's Dee.

Dee was the first person to greet me in the exam room at the Oncologist's office.

Who laughed and reassured me that the green goo leaking out around my PEG tube was not my vital essence, but the spinach dal I had eaten at the Indian buffet the day before my first Chemo treatment.

Who explained how to treat thrush.

Who fought the insurance companies for me when dorks in suits tried to stand between me and the treatment that was to save my life.

Who gave me the daily injections when I had my saddle thrombosis, and nicknamed me her "My Little Pin Cushion."

Whose face was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes after passing out in the lobby of the clinic one sunny afternoon.

Who brings people from the hospital to see me on stage.

Who created and facilitated the head and neck cancer support group that taught me I wasn't alone.

And last week, Dee packed up her office and moved on from the Markey Cancer center. She has a great opportunity to train other cancer nurses. She's going to pass all that knowledge and passion and compassion to new generations of healers who have never had to pick up an unconscious Fat Man from under the couch in the waiting room. She isn't going to be there the next time I go to visit the doc, but she will be in my heart for as long as it beats. Goodbyes are hard, but that kind of legacy softens the blow.

I wonder about my own legacy a lot. What's going to be left on the wall or in someone's heart when I finally say goodbye? Will it be a kind word... or a cruel one? Will it be a story I told? Will there be someone who runs a marathon or auditions for a play or starts a blog because they knew me? Have I built anything that will last, planted anything that will bear fruit long after I am gone? I think these are questions you once you realize that you are probably closer to your last birthday than your first one. We all want to know that we mattered to somebody.

Cancer taught me that I matter to a lot more people than I realized. People love me more than I ever dreamed. If nothing else, that's my legacy. I gave people a chance to love somebody in this world. Not a bad start.

Lots of people tell me that I inspire them. I am grateful, but I always wonder, "What are you inspired to do?" I have a friend who is trying to stop smoking and start running. I don't take any credit for that, it is a tribute to his own strength and love of life, but he says I put him to shame. I hate that. That's not why I'm alive. There is plenty of shame in the world already. I want to help make more life. If the Fat Man was saved for anything, it was for that: to be a living example of how love can beat death. In every life. Every time. Death can take us in the end, but it we don't ever have to let him win. "The Girls" at the Y taught me that. The Five taught me that. Dee taught me that. If I can teach you that, and inspire you to wrap your arms around life and never let go... well that's a legacy that will soften any goodbye.

Yeah, I'm feeling a little reflective and just a bit melancholy today. I'll get back to miles and weights and fund-raising tomorrow. But today, I'm just kind of nestled in the love of a bunch of cancer fighters who have made me a part of their own legacy.

Peace,
Pennsy

One for the Five, my half-marathon to honor my friends and family whose fight against cancer has ended has raised more than $2400 for the Markey Cancer Foundation with 19 days to go.


Running for Sabrina, my friend Charlie's marathon to honor his niece and fight Down Syndrome has raised $2000 with just a few days to go.


LIVESTRONG at the YMCA still has spots available for the afternoon and the evening sessions which start in a couple of weeks.


Feeling inspired yet?

#353: My 50/50 Chance.

They gave me a 50/50 chance of seeing this birthday. Flip a coin. Heads, you live to be 51. That's the best the docs could promise me. But I had an ace in the hole.

Love.

Love made me want to live when I felt like dying.

Love knocked at the door, and helped me to laugh when I felt like crying.

Love made me Chicken and Cheddar Chowder, which is even more fun to eat than it is to say.

Love washed my belly when the stoma around my feeding tube leaked all sorts of creepy goo.

Love answered the prayers I didn't know how to pray.

Love picked me up out of the tub afterI  fainted there in the middle of the night.

Love gave me books on tape when I didn't have the strength to hold a printed copy up.

Love wept tears of grief when they told us I had cancer, and tears of joy when they told us it was gone.

Love insisted I get better so that I could act again, then waited for me until I was ready.

Love lifted me out of bed, taught me to walk, helped me to run.

Love found us a new home, when the bank said we had to leave the old one.

Love never left. Not even when I thought it was gone forever.

They gave me a 50/50 chance. Love rigged the game.

On this, my 51st birthday, I thank God for the love that saved my life. From Hell. From cancer. From depression. I don't know how many birthdays I have left. I hope there are many more. But no matter how long I have left on this earth, I am determined to never spend another second without the love that God has given me.

Take some for yourself. It's my birthday present to you.

Don't worry. I've got plenty.

Peace and Love,,
Pennsy

#222: In Stillness

In stillness
Thoughts are not so lofty
More
Here
More present

Waking with a gentle opening
Not a start
In stillness
As if only a part of me
Wakes

After the storm
The tears
The Cries in the Dark
Comes stillness
Welcome quiet fills the rooms
Home is home again

In stillness, I whispered your name
And you were here beside me
Your eyes moist with sleep and worry
Mine wide with fear and loneliness
Together we held one another in stillness

There is a kind of quiet that transcends a simple hush. When I've had a difficult spell, like the one I had this afternoon, the worst I can remember, the sleep that follows it is beyond sleep. After a few hours, I open my eyes and my body has not moved an inch. Every finger is just where I left it. Mrs P says at times like this she has to watch me to make sure I'm breathing. The snoring is gone with my tonsils, apparently. The tossing and turning are no longer an option, the PEG tube keeps me on my back. Now that I've lost some weight, I can sleep more comfortably so I don't need to move around much. What it comes down to is that things tend to stay where I put them. I don't fidget around much anymore.

Today, I awoke in the quiet after that storm. Mrs P was asleep in the next room. I could hear her breathing, (she swears she does not snore, but she does have tonsils...,) and I lay there in the light of the afternoon. The earlier gray rainlight had passed and the sun was drying the world. Jake had his chin on my foot. It was so very beautiful. When she awoke, Mrs P brought me my "feeding" and we went about the business of nutrition quietly. She has endured so much through all this. Today's nausea was as bad as she's seen me, too. Seeing the tired in her eyes pains me and I wish there were a way I could make it easier for her. For now, the best I can do is give her these quiet moments when they come. And remind her how grateful I am, how very much I love her.

She rolled over in her sleep the other night and asked, "Would you still love me if you didn't need me so much?" Startling question. It made me think of all the celebrity survivors I keep reading about whose wives get them through treatment, then these guys go find some co-ed and throw over the people who gave them everything. I don't get that. Rather, I asked myself, "Could I need you this much if I didn't love you?" Would I even allow you to pay such a cost without my love? The question was a shock, but it was easy to answer.

Yes, my darling. Yes, I love you, no matter what. Because I love you. That's why.

Peace,
pennsy

#197: No Time To Waste

Wow. Now that's what I call a side effect. I was sitting here peacefully reading about my chemo drugs when BLAM, the pukes hit me like a bus. out of no where. I was surprised by a couple of things. First, the suddenness of their onset. Second, the emptiness of my stomach. Apparently a liquid diet moves mercifully fast through the stomach. And third, when I was finished I felt as if someone had removed all the muscles from my legs. I was weak as a baby, could barely stand. Wow.

A quick trip to bed was followed by chills, blankets, a hat Mum had crocheted for me, and more heaves throughout the night and into the morning. Thank God for Ambien.

This was kind of a reality check for me. I really can't plan for good days or bad days. Just have to take them as they come. After 40 years of acting, I'm finally learning what "here and now" really means. Cancer doesn't give you the luxury of looking ahead. Especially when you're at the coin-toss level of prognosis. Doc says I have a fifty-fifty change of seeing my 55th birthday. We'll 50% is a lot. But there's a 100% chance that I'm alive, awake, and not throwing up right now. I'll have to settle for that.

I've been working at getting to know the other members of the radiation club, a group of four families who happen to be in the waiting room as the same time every morning. There's the lady from West Virginia who is staying here with her husband while she gets treatment. She doesn't have any teeth either. Gum Cancer. Never smoked. Never drank. She is sweet, but very afraid. There's the middle aged couple who have a farm outside of town. She loves her animals in the way that only a farmer can. They take them to vacation bible school and show kids what Jesus was talking about when he spoke of sheep and goats and pigs and such. Then there's the preacher and his wife. He and I are on just about the same schedule as far as treatment and side effects. We are usually within a few hours of each other with good and bad days. He's a very handsome, fit man. I can just picture them going to church. Him in his big black robe. Her in her colorful Sunday dress and enormous church hat. We sit together and talk with one another. "How was your night?" the patients ask one another. "How is he doing?" the spouses offer. It's a tight little fraternity. We all have life and death in common. I guess that's always true, but you're rarely so aware of the empty chair waiting for him to come in and sit down with you.

We all know we're going to die one day. It just doesn't usually matter quite so much. I find myself driven to lift people up around me. I joke and tease and flirt. I kiss my wife. I insist on telling Mum I love her, even if we're not used to that kind of bluntness. There simply isn't time to waste being stupid any more. There isn't time to waste pretending to be cool or aloof or the smartest guy in the room. I'm just another guy who is going to die. Just like you. We don't have time for anything but loving one another.

Well, and the occasional dry heave. That I make time for.

Peace,
pennsy

#174: Lessons From the Theatre

With the exception of my wedding and a few special New Year's Eve celebrations with Mrs P, I have spent the best parts of my life on stage. Acting is the only job I've ever really loved. It is often painful, always rewarding, and on rare occasions, positively mystical.

It occurred to me today that I've spent so many years playing characters who endured trials, I might turn to them to learn how to conduct myself during my own survival journey.

The first time I played Tevye I knew that I wanted to spend my life performing. On opening night, as I stood high atop my little milk wagon taking in the applause after If I Were a Rich Man I was positively drunk with the audience's approval. It was many years later - around thirty I think - that I was able to play the role again, and learned about the heart of this big, beautiful man. For him, family is everything. No matter how hard the world is on him, no matter how far away his children travel, he and Golde remain bound with cords of love that no Tzar or Cossack can sever. The dairyman from Anatevka taught me that love is the source of our strength and our life.

The Tempest is Shakespeare's story of a wronged Duke, Prospero and his revenge on the brother who unjustly banished him and his daughter on a deserted island. He has every right to be angry, and using magic powers he conjurs a storm that maroons the cruel brother and his fellow travellers from Naples. Prospero and the fairies who serve him devise more and more powerful ways to torment the party, but just at the moment when his final vengance is complete, the old magicial changes his mind. He himself is tormented, not by guilt, but by the innocence of his daughter and his sprite, Ariel. Prospero chooses mercy over justice, and because of that choice, he is redeemed.

I also have a lot to be angry about. I've been mistreated by the insurance company, old employers, friends who disappeared when things got tough. I could spend - and to be honest, I have spent - lots of time blaming and fantasizing my own vengence on the people who may not have caused my cancer, but have certainly made it more difficult for me and the people I love. Such thoughts are tempting, and perversely gratifying, I must admit. But they will not help me to redeem my life back from the disease that is trying to lay claim to it. Like Prospero, I have not choice but to forgive the people who torment my nights.

Nick Bottom is a complete jackass. So much so, that he is given a donkey's head in which to woo Titania, the queen of the fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Bottom has little talent and less craft, but by golly he loves his friends and he loves the theatre. The chance to play makes his heart soar and his enthusiasm lifts his fellow mechanicals to heights beyond their wildest dreams. Bottom loves unconditionally. It's as simple as that. He finds wonder everywhere and ecstasy in the crazy poetry of life. He gives himself away completely, and in doing so, he is glorified.

I lack Bottom's purity of heart, but I know what it means to love what you do. In that, I am a lucky man. I know what it is to love the people around you without reservation. In that, I am a rich man. No matter how much depression and cancer may try to convince me otherwise, I know I have a reason to live. I need to live, because I am not finished loving yet.

In the dark days ahead, I will remember the lessons these teachers have given me. I gave my all to do right by them, and I know they will not abandon me in my hour of need. And when the Dark Angel has passed me over at last, I am determined to return to them. I am not finished learning yet, either.

The Fat Man & his Wife Do It in Public (for the first time!)

Mrs P and I shared a cool experience today. I go to the gym straight from work. She usually arrives a little later. Today, She walked in the front door when I had been on the elliptical for about 30 minutes.

I have been telling her about the machine - my early difficulties, how gentle it is on my joints, what a great workout it is. She had not tried it. We’re both a little clumsy and self conscious about looking foolish, so we are shy about trying to do new things in public.

Well, today, she walked up to me, batted her big brown eyes and said, “Show me how this thing works.”

I was so proud of her!

I stopped what I was doing, and moved down the line to a place where two machines were empty side by side. I tried to remember all the things I had done wrong early on - don’t rush, don’t lock your knees, keep your balance, stay in control - then she stepped on to the foot pads and I showed what all the buttons did. We walked together side-by-side, a fat man running and his lovely bride, sweating through life together. And neither of us gave a rat’s patoot who saw us or what we looked like. She looked like the prettiest girl in the gym. And I probably looked like the happiest boy.

After a week of constant griping about my sore swollen, chafed, strained, aching, limping parts, it was really nice to just enjoy a walk with my sweetheart. It felt like Valentine’s day.

Only the air smelled like liniment instead of chocolate and roses.

Smelled pretty good, too.

Peace,
Pennsy

Jogged!

Oh Yeah! Today I jogged! I picked up my great big feet and jogged. 4 tenths of a mile.

Not in a row.

I walked 2.5 miles. Four times I ran the speed up to 5 from 4.2 and actually picked up my feet. I won’t call it running, but it was definitely jogging.

My recovery time was pretty good, but my knees reminded me that I’m still too heavy to run very far. It felt great. I haven’t run for a lot of years.

I’ll continue trying to mix in the intervals when I walk. tomorrow weights. Tonight, a short post, cause I’m going to spend some time gazing at my Valentine.

Peace and tonight of all nights, Love,
Pennsy