Humble

It's been exactly a year since my right Achilles tendon started screaming at me halfway through a 100 meter sprint.  One year.

The day I was fitted for a walking cast, I  published a brave blog about game changers, and goal shifting, and all sorts of uplifting things.

Six weeks later I posted an even braver blog about skipping the Spanx at my high school reunion, still convinced that the setback was temporary, still riding high on a metabolism jacked up on 7x/week workouts (pre-injury, that is). 

October 2 was the last time I ran.  And what a run it was!  Four miles through the foothills of Los Angeles.  A run I had sooooo looked forward to, a run alongside someone you definitely want to do your last run with. If, you know, there is the acknowledgement that it's your last run.  Which of course I refuse to acknowledge.

If someone forced me to look back at the last 12 months (oh look at that, I'm forcing myself), to find a common thread, the only word that comes to mind is humility.  Pretty much every day of the last year, as I climb out of bed to sometimes-grumbling, sometimes outright-hollering tendons - both left and right - I have been deeply humbled.

scene from one of those quick easy runs

Humbled as I tried, month after month, a 'quick easy run' and then spent the following hour icing my ankles. Humbled as I watched my neighbors run up my street.  Humbled as I met up with my running friends for drinks and reported, over and over, nope, no change. As bad as ever.  Humbled as the physical therapist shook his head ruefully and said he's discharging me, because his excellent plan didn't work, didn't fix it.   Humbled as I told my kids no Mommy can't race you, sweetheart.  It hurts my ankles too much.

But here's the funny thing.  It's been far easier to think about this most physical of lessons - the humbling that comes from not forcing my aging body to do what I want it to do.  Because oh, the humility that life has handed out with relentless enthusiasm this year.  The ankles have been the mere tip of the iceberg.

Maybe I have more to say about humility.  Maybe I have more to say about well...anything. Maybe its time to start saying some things again. 

Tomorrow's February 29.  A day I didn't have last year.  Maybe tomorrow breaks the spell.