Pain
My legs hurt this morning. That’s not unusual though. My legs hurt almost every morning. Walking down the stairs to seek out my first cup of coffee is often the hardest part of my day (physically at least). There are times, especially when there is a chill in the air, that I wonder if this is the day.
You see, I run. A lot. I don’t like to share my running stats, and I don’t have any connections on the popular fitness apps. So when I tell you I run a lot, you’ll just need to use your imagination. I find, from personal experience at least (and yes, I realize that I am projecting), that often times another person’s running and/or fitness stats can discourage us. Not that I’m an oustanding athlete or anything. In truth, I have a hard time referring to myself as a “runner”. And I certainly would never use the words “fast” or “far” in the same breath that describes by regimine. But I’m all too aware that there are others who wish to [run/perform/workout — pick any of them] as much or more than I do. Just as I am keenly aware that there are those out there whose performance I myself covet. No, my actual numbers are of no consequence. So I run a lot.
And that brings me back to my sore legs. I know the day is coming. It looms over me like a foreboding thunder cloud, dripping with loss and melancholoy. And to be completely fair, I know that I am in bonus time right now. I run far more and far quicker than I have any right to. But the inevitable still looms and I just can’t avert my eyes. That day when the soreness in my legs turns cold and hard. When stretching and warmth and movement does little to chase away the aching and sharpness. When my joints no longer whisper their complaints, but force me to suffer them audibly. Even as I type these words, that truth moves me deeply. I can feel the pain trace it’s way from my ankles, calves, knees, and thighs up to my heart and chest.
If I’m being honest though, there is certain comfort that comes with pain. It reminds me of other times; simpler times perhaps. When life and potential were bounded only by that to which I could physically and mentally strive. When the edges of existence were mortared in pain, and even then could be stretched if the will was resolved. Every pain was new and fresh, every experience to be sucked dry of every essence. Good? Good is easy. Good is it’s own truth. Self sufficient and uncaring. One can be good, and do well at it. As a moth to flame. But pain, well that’s another thing. That takes resolve and determination. Don’t misunderstand me here, I don’t mean to paint a picture of two exclusive conditions. Great pain can come from doing good. But it is still pain. In an earlier time it was the pain that brought freshness and newness. That revealed boundaries I never knew existed. Pain was the muse to whom my heart was witness. The subject and author of so much of my narrative.
I’m not sure where I was going with that thought, so I’ll just let it lie. Eventually, as they do today, my legs stretch and heal. And though the pain remains, it is greatly diminished and I’m able to once again lace up my shoes and run. The pain is always there. Perhaps a reminder of the pending downpour. Or just the thread that reminds me that I am no different than Icarus, Sisyphus, Abel, or Adam. We all share some common bond. Pain I suppose, is the human condition. Though the substance and nature of it is unchanged in the last 10,000 days, or 10,000 years, it nevertheless changes us. How it changes us… well that’s up to us and not an artifact of the intensity or type of pain. Let me be completely clear dear reader, you will hurt. You will cry. You will experience pain. You will regret, ache, be broken. And if truly penitent, you may, as I, long to assume the volumes of pain you have cast on others.
Hearts break, but only once broken are we allowed to see and hold them.
So as I stand up once more to retrieve some forgotten token or cup, I listen intently. My legs hurt, but at least they still whisper.
