YMCA wheelchairs

white screen.
just like a canvas.
only less intimidating.
I've faced it so many times.
I know it doesn't have to be right.
only true.
_______________________________________
I want to go running this morning.
Saturday is the day of my long run, and I relish it.
But the tendons along the top of my foot are complaining.  Should I take my own advice and stay down today?
When I speak to other women about recovery I tell them,
"Be gentle with your body.  She does not deserve punishment.  Exercise when it fits, and do it with pleasure."
Ugh...maybe I do need to stay down.

On Thanksgiving morning, I joined the mass of runners in City Creek canyon.
The Turkey Trot where everyone earns the right to eat whatever they want that day.
But not me. 
As I whisked past the leaves curling into the ground, my footfalls a prayer,
"Thank you for hanging in there with me, body.  Thank you for this."
I apologized to her for every time I drank too much and made her shake, made her forget.
For every time I starved her and made her run anyway.   Even though it hurt, even though it caused injury.
For every time I binged and made her get rid of it...for every time I binged and didn't get rid of it.
For every time I made her lie beneath a man who didn't care about her. 

She ran faster and forgave me.

















The first time I realized my body is a gift was at the YMCA.
I was visiting my aunt in Tujunga California. 
Just as the sun came up, I tip-toe out of the house before anyone is awake.
I drive huddled in a lump of grey hoodie, asking myself why I do this when it is so cold outside.
Then I open the locker room door, see the familiar expanse of lap lanes, and remember.
The pool sits nestled in a green house.  Glass squares make a lattice over the water.
In the early morning, steam billows up to fill the whole space.
Swimmers trail magic spells into it as they windmill over the surface.
Halfway through my swim, the door opens and a procession of wheelchairs surrounds me.
They are part of a city program. That day their activity is the swimming pool.
Only about 4 of them can actually get into the water.
The rest watch.
They are stationed at the deep end all in a row.
Every time I come to my flip-turn, I see them through a film of ripples.
"They don't even have the option to learn this.  They will never know how this feels.  If they had my body, they would never punish it, like I punish mine."
At every turn, a new guilt punctures my chest. 
I am in awe of my own lack of gratitude. 
That was 14 years ago.  I still think of those people in the wheelchairs when I swim.
They are whole people, not just symbols.
They want freedom and life just as much as I do.
I suppose some of them hated sitting there watching us do something they will never be allowed.
I wonder if some could see the beauty in it.

I drove home with a quiet soul.