I am not long back from five weeks away. Hiking in the Lake District in the UK, also in the backcountry in Norway. Time with family and friends. A writing retreat. A meditation retreat.

Now. At home. I begin again. As if some part of my life was frozen in time, while I explored other dimensions. A part of me is frustrated with beginning again. When will I get to the middle? Which I imagine as more settled and secure, instead of mysterious and unsettling. The three years since the dissolution of my marriage have felt like an unending series of begin-agains. Picking myself up off the floor. An eternal loop of standing up one more time than I’ve fallen.

Another part of me is curious. Maybe beginning again is just right.

At the meditation retreat, I had one of those teeny-tiny felt insights, which can set off a chain of subtle shifts. Shifts so small they may be sub-perceptual. And yet. Over the course of time. Drop by drop.

Here’s what happened. We were doing a breath count meditation. Following the teacher’s instructions, the count went like this in my head: I breathe in. I breathe out. One. I breathe in. I breathe out. Two. I breathe in. I breathe out. Three. Up to six and begin again. This is a variation on a Thich Nhat Hanh meditation: Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.

All those words in my head felt like a jumble sale. I dropped I breathe out, saying (in my mind) just the number on the out breath. I breathe in. One. I breathe in. Two.  Still, the words were awkward, jangly. I was managing the count, but stumbling over the words. Then, out of nowhere, instead of saying to myself, I breathe in. I heard myself say, I begin. My whole body relaxed. I begin. The words felt exact. Spacious. Right. Not about falling and standing back up.

I have a charm on my key fob with the words I begin. It was given to me by a close friend who I met when I was a participant in a weeklong theatre workshop she was teaching on Tectonic Theatre Project’s Moment Work devising technique. Devising is a way of creating theatre from the ground up, from small theatrical moments, instead of starting with a fully formed script. During devising sessions, micro-scenes are created in a framework that starts with the presenter speaking the words, I begin. They then show a moment they’ve created and close with, I end. Slowly, these micro-bits accumulate, coalesce and evolve together, until a full piece emerges. We became friends and ended up devising a play for 10 women. Hence the gift of the charm.

As I thought about the words, I begin, arising in the meditation, I recognized that, for me, they are a symbol of co-creation, of blank slate, of experimentation, of not-knowing and still trying. Of finding what works and letting what doesn’t drop away.

During the retreat meditation, I felt how that instant, sitting there on that cushion, experiencing that spontaneous arising of the words, I begin, was both its own moment and part of an accumulation of moments, a greater story, which was already partially written, yes, but which still had room for creativity and experimentation. I felt my whole body settle. As if the words were saying, it’s okay, you can stop struggling, just take the next step.

The settled feeling passed. Of course. Yet, its residue has stayed with me. In my daily meditations now, I use the words, I begin, when I’m counting breaths. When I remember. Because I don’t remember every time. Of course. Each time I do, it offers me a scintilla of extra ease, like a hand giving my shoulder a quick squeeze.

So that when I get a message from my ex that threatens a rabbit hole of complicated distress, I can breathe, step back from reacting, and allow myself time to feel into the right and compassionate response. I can allow the moment my heart seizes to be what it is, let it fall away and allow the next I begin.

Oh, I know I will continue to struggle and push and try. I’m not changed into a forever relaxed and worry-free person by the incantation of two simple words. And I do feel like I have a little more access to those qualities than before. That’s the power of the right words. For me. I am, if you’ve read other of my musings, a word person. The right ones can offer me an anchor in the storms of life. That’s why I gravitate toward practices like having a Word of the Year.   

An image many meditation teachers use is of silt settling to the bottom of a glass of water. How we cannot see the clear water, which is always there, when it is obstructed by the silt of our thoughts. Once we have glimpsed the clear water though and we can begin (that word again) to understand that it is always there, we can cultivate the ability to return to that state we’ve experienced. I notice this principle applies to running (and other sports). In the inevitable cycles of lower and higher engagement, injury and recovery, I feel how my body understands this rhythm and helps me return to equilibrium. My body remembers how to use the tempo of my steps, my arms, my knee lift, to accelerate and lay off, exploring where those boundaries and possibilities are each day.

Coming home from a long time away and finding myself facing the same personal and work challenges, I feel how I want to retract into worry, push, push, push toward solutions.  My hope with the words I begin, is to cultivate my ability to return to the experience of the retreat, to the feeling of settling and expanding. Of trusting. I want to struggle less. Adjust my focal length to the micro-moments, as in the theatre practice. How can I make this little slice of now more … more supportive, more beautiful, more easeful, more impactful? As I begin.  

Again. And again. Yet again.

Does it count? I have been wondering this, lately, while reaching to shave my legs and feeling a little stretch in my hamstrings or reached down to pick up my senior dog, Miggy, and making sure I’m bending down safely – am I in the middle of an impromptu deadlift/squat variation? It feels like a stretch. I try not to lead from my trunk to aggrevate my lower back. I always squat first to pick up Miggy. Minimal online searching, says, no, not in a fitness sense.

But what really counts for our overall health? I can’t help but observe seniors at my Dad’s assisted living home. People who live at this home appear to have a wide range of mobility. Many use walkers. Some use wheelchairs. Many don’t use either. My casual observations, coupled with a bit of listening in at my Dad’s doctor’s appointments about senior health, is that any movement is beneficial. If you can do it, moving in any way is good for your body AND your brain. If you can reach down to shave, reach up to get the shampoo bottle, go for a walk to the library, it’s all good for you.

Stretching is a theme that’s been ever present in my mind these days. As a runner, stretching has always been an important consideration, however, I haven’t always been diligent with it. I’ve been one of those, “if I have 60 min to run”, I’m going to run, consider how I should stretch afterwards, but then head right for my coffee or a shower and forget about it. It’s not because I don’t need to stretch. I’m not one of those hyper-bendy people. Even when I was in my 20s, I wasn’t able to get my hamstrings to stretch to 90 degrees in mat (pilates, yoga) classes. I’d notice 70 year old women with very straight angles and wonder what their secret was – hours of stretching? years of dancing and gymnastics? I grew to understand that 90 degree angles probably weren’t in the cards for me. Like most experiences with fitness, I’d need to discover the other benefits of stretching besides being lithe.

Of course, the more I ran, the more I took strength and movement classes, I learned the benefit of releasing tension in my muscles and joints.

After several days walking 30,000 steps a day on Quebec City’s steep sidewalks at the beginning of August, I came home and discovered an aching hip in the middle of the night. that aching hip moved around about to the area I think of as my “glute med(ius)”. It was more irritated sitting too long. It was aggravated walking on in kind of incline too fast. I started ensuring I was doing more stretches every morning for my hips and glutes. I focussed on active stretches that have formed part of exercise classes I’ve enjoyed for years – walking leg sweeps, walking hip “CARs“, seated, folding “90/90s”, bridges. One of my coaches suggested adding longer, more static stretches in the evening. I added longer pigeon holds (with my hip barely reaching the floor these days on the left side), couch stretches, longer hamstring stretches while watching TV. Before going out for my run, I make sure I stretch properly and often add more stretches while stopped at lights on my run. The post-vacation pain seems to be much better.

Since the pain in my butt has gotten better, my diligence with stretching has already started to slide. Or not. I need to make sure I stick to more stretching. Whether it’s for current maintenance, or, trying to keep my mobility as I age into my golden years, it seems it’s crucial component of my overall fitness plan. If I can add a few stretches while going through the motions of getting ready, that would be good too. Seems like I need to make sure that I am actually making it a stretch (holding it long enough, reaching far enough) and not relying on the ordinary movement naturally being one.

While reaching down to do daily tasks may not be an official stretch, these little feelings of movement are regular reminders to be grateful for every opportunity to move and not take that movement for granted.

The end of August is a busy time of year! It’s the blog’s birthday. It’s my birthday. And it’s also my left knee’s birthday. I tend to forger that one but these photos showed up as memories in my social media newsfeeds.

I underwent a total knee replacement of my left knee on August 29 in 2022. My right knee was replaced about 8 months after that.

I keep admiring how well it’s healed and how well it works. It also looks pretty good, I think.

Here is my left knee, elevated for physio. I still do lots of leg and knee-specific exercises. But I also walk lots, ride my bike lots, squat and deadlift at the gym, walk Cheddar and climb up and downstairs in our house about a dozen times a day. (I know because my Garmin watch tracks it.)

Now that’s a cheery blog post title!

What I read: The Vicious Cycle of Subtle Physical Withdrawal | Psychology Today

Why I’m interested: I’ve always been fascinated by the question of declining fitness with age and how much of it is in our control. I wrote Is Aging a Lifestyle Choice? way back in 2012. Yes, older people tend to be slower but older people also train less. Lots of research says older people get the same fitness gains from training as younger people. The problem is they/we don’t do it. We train less. We don’t push ourselves. My question: how much of this decline is psychological? Further question,  even if the decline is our heads not the rest of our body,  does that mean it’s any easier to change?

What the article is about:  The role of the brain and novelty in physical decline.  It’s not about speed,  strength or training.  Instead the focus is on the way we gradually limit our range of motion and stop doing novel physical things. As a result, we have less confidence and narrow the range of things we’ll try. It’s a vicious cycle. The idea is that subtle behavioural changes can lead to a loss of physical confidence and even greater physical withdrawal.

Quote from the article: “Physical Novelty Is Part of How You Stay Resilient

“Everyone reaches a point of physical limitations, but we reach it sooner if we shy away from physical tasks and don’t challenge our brain to regularly encounter unfamiliar motor patterns. If we stick to only a restricted set of movement patterns, our brain gets accustomed to firing our muscles only in a narrow range of ways. When we give ourselves new challenges, within reason, we adapt to them on a variety of mental and physical levels.”

This can be simple things like not climbing on ladders to get things off high shelves, or not putting on socks and shoes while standing up.

What are some examples from my life? I think of things like getting in the canoe without getting my feet wet. Since I’m in the bow, that means stepping through the boat with balance,  and then sitting down.  These days I tend to wear flip-flops and say, whatever, and step through the water instead.

Maybe I should challenge myself more often to do it the hard way.

Sarah does it the hard way but she also does the portages in hiking boots.

Or the different ways of getting off my bike.

See Getting on and off your road bike with grace!.

I’m trying not to get too much in the habit of dropping the frame to the ground and stepping over it.

How about you?

And how is this for new and unfamiliar movements?

View this post on Instagram