I am back to my body now. With every stride I am knowing it. The leg muscles know it too. The all of my body knows it now. Something deep, inexplicable has been uncovered and released. The willingness to breathe rediscovered perhaps.
My powered legs striding have always done me proud. From dancing to sports to getting me back to my feet after I was shot in the head.
Now, at 55, they are again striding again. To my right I can see the summits of the Catskills and they pull at me, challenges that they are. And I think of the Adirondacks and beyond, and I keep striding.
Remember to live, I think. It is what I remind others and so I must remind myself as well. I am 55, I think, and as of March 28 I pass my father in time in this world. And then I am here for the both of us; the stanchions of my heart will have no problem arrying our joined “weight”. I can carry my father forever, and if there is eternity, I will carry him there again.
On the ground bleeding to death it was my father who entered my heart and soul and legs and powered me into standing up; there is no doubt in my mind.
I know now, striding, breaking hills, a phrase I coined for reaching the summit of all inclines, that I cannot wait any longer. Let the stanchions of my heart turn loose and the wonder of the human spirit carry me, as long as possible.
Stride on my boy, my father says, Stride on.
And I break another hill.