I was in a good routine, just starting to plateau, and considering what it would take to increase my intensity when I fell down and dislocated my tail-bone in a “I can’t tell if I was having fun unless I got hurt” episode. After that it was very difficult to get back in the swing, since I took so long to heal. Once I was recovered, I had moved to Eugene where there were, to my shock, no 24 hour fitness locations. This was most distressing, since I had a lifetime membership there. Trying to find a new gym was sort of a pain, and I couldn’t commit until it had been so long I barely remembered what it was like to lift on anything approaching a regular basis.

And this arm is not what it used to be

But with my Christmas bonus, and a bargain membership offered through the Gold’s gym here, I was excited to get back at the rack.

I have a tendency to overdo things after a long absence, so I tried to take it super easy the first day back. Minimal weight, short sets, only 2 of each. I stretched for at least as long as I had lifted, and apart from some chicken wing tightness, I felt pretty good. Second day back, I tried to maintain my plan, but pushed a little harder on the lower body than I had on upper body, just by virtue of the greater capacities of the muscle groups in question. I did some of the harder lifts in my repertoire with minimal weight, but despite my caution, I could still feel the strain even before my second set was over.

Today, I attempted a recovery workout. I tend to alternate days lifting focusing on specific areas: arms & abs one day, legs & ass the next. For a recovery day I do an all over workout focusing on movement, stretching, and simply creating bloodflow to the areas I think might need it. I usually come away from this feeling great and much less stiff and sore than I am if I just rest completely. When I left the gym today I felt pretty good, but by the time I was done with my chores…. mercy.

Now, I know they say “No pain, no gain” but today I feel like I was beat with sticks. It’s pretty clear I haven’t done myself any great injury, which is certainly an improvement over other starts, but every time I stand up, sit down, twist, bend, move or breathe, it hurts. I’m trying to take this as a sign that I activated all the muscles I wanted to and I’m well on my way back to super-buff status, but right now all I know is that I’d give my bad eye for some Ibuprofen, Aspercreme, a hot tub, and a massage. And the thing is, I don’t even need to, I have access to each and all of these things, it just hurts too much to move enough to get them.

Anyone who has spent any time around me knows that I am accident prone, I bruise easily, and I fall down. A lot. Not just a lot for an adult, a lot for a drunken toddler. I trip, I misstep, my feet disappear from beneath me and I topple. Usually this happens when I am in the midst of doing something fun. This is not meant to read as a euphemism for “when I am drinking” though it certainly has gone that way, it is simply to point out that somehow, when I am having the most fun, it is also the most likely moment for me to hurt myself. This has become so true that I now have a handy and glib little phrase to trot out when it happens: If I didn’t get hurt, how would I know if I had fun?

One Thanksgiving weekend, some years ago, I was having SO MUCH FUN! A group of the usual suspects had gone to Bend for the annual Deep Fried Turkey and Drinking Derby and we’d gotten a truly lovely house for the lot of us. This was open beam construction, grand kitchen, pool table having lovely. Double doors in the main entry and an apartment over the garage for those who needed extra privacy. Also in the garage was a ping pong table. The inevitable game of Beer Pong ensued, and though I did not play (see above re: lack of depth perception, spatial reasoning) I was enjoying the spectacle considerably. At this point, tipsy and giddy, I realized there was something in the house I wanted at that very moment. At present, I cannot recall what that was, but why I can’t may become clear quite soon. As I raced back toward the house, as fast as my bare feet would carry me, I rounded a corner and sped toward the open of the two double doors. Much to the chagrin of my face, which struck it first at full tilt,  it turned out not to be an open door so much as a plate glass window. My friend Jason, who witnessed this impact from the inside of the door, said as I hit the window and then slid slowly toward the floor it was like watching a cartoon in real life and that he was deeply conflicted between genuine concern and hysterical laughter. The former overwhelmed the latter, and he came outside and picked me up with considerable tenderness and very minimal audible laughter. This is evidence that despite all other facts about him, he is probably a saint.

I managed to give myself a concussion, and a nasty scar on the bridge of my nose where my glasses slammed into my face with all my weight and speed behind the impact. I had a monster headache, was nauseated, and cried for about 4 hours off and on; partly in pain, partly in humiliation, and partly in annoyance that in my concussed absence, some other girl was downstairs singing opera at the crowd and I was not fit to go down there and show her who was boss of that skill. (Hint: Not Her)

On fun occasions I have sustained injuries of smaller scope in both hilarity and severity:

Sunriver August ’08: Faulty sprinkler valve cover collapsed on me during a Frisbee game, sunk to my knee on the run. Scrapes.

Reno Roadtrip August ’08: Giant cinder landed on hand. Burn

Indian Head Beach October ’08: Bashed self in the face with a surfboard on errant wave: Fat lip.

Opal Creek July ’10: Slip and fall during descent to creek for kayaking trip. Broken hand

Clackamas River August ’10: Clotheslined by flotilla. Rope burn.

And I could go on, but there are too many to recount.

This last weekend I had more fun than I have had in recent memory, and so, naturally, I also hurt myself. I had, in fact, JUST gotten done telling my hiking companion

“Wow, it’s so great! I haven’t even fallen down!”

…

Which was clearly a cue for the Universe to Smite Me for my cheek, in this case on my cheek. Accordingly, I slipped as I was clambering over a rock and landed with all due force on my rear end. Hard. My hiking companion was compassionate and picked me up and brushed me off with great facility. He seemed distressed, but I knew that it was evidence of just how much fun I was having.

Everything Hits At Once

And are they ever right about that.

In this case, and for a change, a considerable portion of events have been good. Really good. One might even say good without precedent. Others have been breathtaking and heartbreaking, and so it all falls together in the way that it will.

My mother, who I love very much indeed, has just lost her longtime lover and companion. He was as ornery a cuss as ever lived. He loved to argue, and most of all, to get a rise out of people. When I first met him, I knew already about his penchant for starting verbal tussles. I resisted his every salvo, ignored his every prodding, until at last he looked me square in the eye and called me Cupcake.

There. Was. Rage.

Ultimately, I decided this wasn’t the worst thing to have someone call you, and I learned to accept his pet name with better grace. He still teasingly called me that, the last time we spoke. He and I were never close, but I know he cared very much for my mother, and even more than that he took care of her, which is something that virtually no one else in all of her life has done. She has always been the breadwinner, the bacon bringer. John loved my mother, at her prickly, vain, harsh, and passionate worst, and in all the days they were together, she felt loved; well and truly, for the first and only time in all her life. I am very sorry indeed that she has lost him.

Other people, close and dear to me, are going through transitions of similar import. They are profound in their mystery, wondrous in the ambient power they exert. Those are not my tales to tell. But they work on me, in their way.

And then my own tumbling; this weekend quite literally. Still waiting to hear if my tailbone is just bruised, or if I managed to crack it. This all entwined with discovery and concordance, bliss and laughing-to-the-point-of-pain.

Amidst it all, I try to keep my eyes open to these wonders; my senses alive to the magic of this moment in time, which is even now, racing away.

traditionally meant the condition of having sensation (including the feeling of pain) blocked or temporarily taken away.

Current recipie: podcasts, shopping, sleep. It has not been entirely effective.

I am aggrieved it feels so necessary.

When I was a senior in high school, our conductor elected to have our choir perform a particularly ambitious piece for our state championship tournament. It was so not only for it’s difficulty, which was acknowledged as generally well beyond the capacities of the average high school choir (which we were decidedly not) but also because the piece was quite new; it had been written within the previous several years and the conductor was still living. This chorale also included a solo of a particularly demanding sort; a soprano had to maintain one constant note throughout the entire piece. This tone had to be sung with great sensitivity to nuance and exacting control. More, the singer had to manage with one voice, through an entire chorus of seventy others not to overpower, but to pierce.

Dr Uphaus told me he had never even considered anyone else for the job.

And so we went to state. And we didn’t win. But, one of our adjudicators was Dr Bruce Brown who was at that time the musical director at Portland State University. He made a point to compliment us on the execution of such a challenging piece of music. He also told us that the composer Arvo Part* was coming to Portland with his choir to perform THE VERY SONG with the Portland State Choir at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, and should we so choose, we were welcome to join them.

So, I and a few of my cohorts decided that would be swell. We toddled on down to PSU for 3 or 4 practice sessions. On the first of these Dr Brown cast around the room and said

“Is the young lady that sang the solo for state here in the group?”

I raised my hand, slightly terrified.

“Oh, grand. None of my singers can quite manage it. You’ll help us practice, yes?”

Of course I would.

Over the next few practice sessions, I just naturally assumed that M. Part would be select one of his own singers to perform the coveted solo. It turned out, rather, that he had wanted to leave that honor to Dr Brown, his host. When he was preparing us the night before the performance, Dr Brown turned to me with complete aplomb and said

“And naturally Autumn will be managing the solo as usual.”

I was completely, utterly, and in every way paralyzed by this pronouncement. I had not prepared myself in any way for this possibility, and I was in a paroxysm of terror in anticipation of it. I sat there in my plastic chair for ten full minutes after the larger group had broken up and wandered away, gripping the sides till my knuckles were white and my breath came back, though in gasps. It had taken all of  my will and every bit of my strength to stand up at state, with my own dear choir at my back, and lift my voice to this purpose. To do so instead, with hundreds of strangers (most older than myself and some professionals at their trade) and no less than the composer of the piece to witness was beyond reckoning. For you see, I had near crippling stage fright. Don’t laugh, It is completely true.

And so. I had to approach Dr. Brown and tell him that though I was deeply honored by his confidence in me, I could not redeem his choice by accepting it. I was too scared, my voice would not rise as it should, and I would fail him. He tried his best to change my mind, but I refused his persistence and cried over my mortification. He let me go, expressing his deep regret, not only for the performance, but for me. He knew then, as I did not, how much I would eventually lament my choice. Someone else sang the solo. The show went on without me entirely. I couldn’t even bring myself to go, I was so ashamed.

And in many ways, I still am.

I am not a person who lives with many regrets. I fuck up, things go wrong, I learn from them and usually see these detours with some equanimity. This too, taught me something tremendously valuable; I am afraid and I might falter, but I forge ahead nevertheless. In truth, this has probably lead to more emotional pain than any other philosophy I subscribe to, but I do not ever find myself dwelling on how things might have gone, should my courage have not failed me.

*There needs to be an umlaut over that a, but I can’t figure it out.

There will come a time,

you’ll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart,

but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see

what you find there.

With grace in your heart

and flowers in your hair…

Mumford & Sons~

Just a little prayer, set to music. I am ready for this storm to be over.

Amen

I feel this emptiness outside

every tattoo i have is both for someone i love and a lesson i’ve carved into my skin.

appropriately, this one hurt much more than any other, as i love the person i had in mind much more than any other. also, the lesson is harder to remember. so.

first i kinda randomly…

hacked all my hair off

went to seattle

saw an amazing sunset

went to ikea

experienced intense coveting of this bed

then got smacked with the sick stick, like hard.

i only drink tea in times of desperation

i couldnt face the idea of an evening spent at the ER, so i’ll be going in the morning. but, generally, boo. episodes of gossip girl and chicken soup delivery nothwithstanding…