The messaging apps on my phone, besides their intended function, are my note pad. I text myself reminders, grocery lists, to-dos and such, just as I once did with pen and paper.
Smudge had been outside (very) early yesterday morning and the woodstove had been tended when I sent myself this message:
Under normal circumstances, I don’t need my memory jogged for stuff like that — I mean, who needs to be reminded to shower? — but this wasn’t a to-do list.
These were guardrails. It set the day’s limits, the only things that absolutely had to be done Tuesday. Anything else could (and would) wait.
See, not long before I sent that text, responding to Smudge’s persistent pawing, I sat up in bed — or tried to, anyway. My lower back delivered a bolt of withering pain that quickly returned me to a horizontal position.
Getting upright and moving was a long and cautious process. Smudge, bless her heart, was patient, her concern evident. We got her taken care of, though, and once my coffee finished brewing, I parked my ass on the love seat in front of the fire.
I had absolutely no questions about why my back hurt. Replaying Monday in my mind, it was obvious.
Lifting, moving and shoveling gravel. Carrying eight large log lengths, one at a time, 75 yards through the woods from the summit to the Ranger. Bucking, loading, unloading, splitting, stacking.
When I finished, I was tired but not hurting in any particular way. It wasn’t ’til the next morning that I began to pay the price for what had been a productive Monday.
I’d been careful to protect my sketchy knee. Straining my back wasn’t on my mind. These days, I’m in the odd place of being physically stronger than I’ve been in years, strong enough to break a body that no longer can absorb the punishment I inflict on it.
Sorry about the whimpering. But hey, look on the bright side — you get a respite from reading about me foraging for next winter’s firewood.
I recall a dinner conversation with an old friend, years ago now, during which we talked at length about so-called “active shooter” scenarios. A career cop, at the time chief of a local department, he pointed to one specific thing that prevents victims from using available means to defend their own lives.
“People hesitate — they freeze — when they confront the reality that if they do something, it’s gonna hurt,” he said. “We’re conditioned to avoid pain. Doing the right thing, or the best thing you possibly can in that moment, sometimes means simply accepting the fact that when you do, it’s gonna hurt.”
“That’s no less true for cops, by the way,” he added.
I looked at my list of six ordinary to-dos, the guardrails I’d texted myself. Clearly, re-stocking firewood would hurt. Likewise scooping out the firebox, carrying the bucket outside and dumping its contents into the ash can. Laundry would be no picnic, either.
Accepting that, I got after it as early as I could. By noon, only laundry was left to do.
I know that many of you deal with illness, incapacity or chronic pain, the likes of which I’ll never know. You accept it without letting it define you. You’re not afraid to work. You get up every day and function, contribute, live.
I admire you.
Tuesday was a reminder of how important that mindset is. We succeed only when we do more than expected. And when we demand more of ourselves, we’re unstoppable.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable