Anywhere But Here

Mile Marker 8500: 

Do you wish you were anywhere but here?

I do.

I wish I could avoid the runners who breathe down my neck as they pass me on the sidewalk.  I wish I could see my feet, obscured by the shape of my mask, as I step off the curb.  I wish my prosthetic leg fit better, not loose and slippery from too much time sitting at home.  

On the sidewalks of my neighborhood, I imagine places I'd rather be. 

Like the French town of Draguignan
where I spent a summer before my accident.

Or the mountains of Austria
where I climbed after it.

Or the cozy streets of Copenhagen
where I walked just 6 short months ago!

But walking isn't the same these days -- even in those amazing places.  It's different for everyone.  Everywhere.

The smallest journey, a trip to the lobby mailroom or around the block, takes more planning than it used to.  More handwashing...

...and definitely more wardrobe changes. 

For me, walking isn't relaxing anymore.  It's intense and unnerving.  Especially in the city.

It reminds me of another time, years back, when everything felt too loud, too dangerous, and too much to take. 

For months after the accident, my dad drove me back and forth to physical therapy.  When trucks roared past us on the highway, I'd close my eyes and clench my teeth, bracing for impact.  Even when we idled at traffic lights, the tires of nearby trucks felt monstrous and threatening, looming outside my window.

Danger was everywhere.  And I wished I were anywhere else.

At Mile 8,500, the sidewalks feel a little bit like that -- if you replace "trucks" with "people passing by."

I want to keep walking.  I need to keep walking.  

But here is a tough place to be.

Mile Marker 8514: 

I decide staying home is OK for now.  I have everything I need.  

I'll just stay home as long as it takes to make the world healthy again.

Besides, there are plenty of places to go... virtually.

I "tour" a French museum with friends.  I get hooked on an RV makeover show.

I read about the Appalachian Trail.

At Mile 8,514, I ask my friend Marla where she would go if she weren't staying home right now.  

Marla and I have traveled together.
A lot.

But she says she wouldn't go anywhere.  Nowhere far, anyway.

"The one thing I want to do most," she says, "is attend Eric's high school graduation."  In person, she means.  

Like every other high school senior, her son Eric is graduating online this year.

Congrats Eric & the Class of 2020 --
Quarantine Strong!

That's when it occurs to me.  

Anywhere But Here doesn't mean here -- like here in Philly.  Or on my sidewalk.  Or even in my apartment.

It means here in time.   It means now.

Come on.  Wouldn't you like to turn back the clock? 

Where were you just 2 1/2 months ago?

I was in Vermont with my nieces and nephew, teaching a bunch of school kids about robot legs.

Remember school??

I'd love to go back to that time where, of course we washed our hands -- didn't you? -- but we also boarded planes, and ate at restaurants, and belayed each other on rock walls, and went to graduations, and hugged our moms.  

Wouldn't you go back there if you could?

Mile Marker 8555:  

To be honest, I've been feeling kind of stuck.  Here.  

Looking down on it all.

I'm back in that place where the outside world feels too loud, and too dangerous, and a bit too much to take.  When I see crowded beaches and bars -- and carefree disregard -- it's like those trucks idling too close for comfort.  It makes me uneasy with those who share the sidewalks.

To make this work, we have to do it together.  And yet, the only mind I can make up is my own.

If I'm going to be here, I have to stop wishing I'm anywhere but here.

At Mile 8,555, I strap on a mask and step out the door.  Again.  (In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big fan of restarts!)

This time around, I try to look past the annoyances and threats that make me want to stay off the sidewalk.  I keep my distance.  Tell myself I'm safe.  Breathe.  Well, into my mask anyway.  

And while I'm doing all that, I challenge myself to find smallest evidence of something good.  Somewhere.  Out here.  

I expect it to be difficult, but actually it's not.  It's eye opening.  It's everywhere.  

There are local businesses awakening 
after 2 months of darkness.

A farmers market that's different,
but still filled with hope.

And a mound of marigolds
growing along the curb.

It's not the first time small wonders have kept me going.  I'm pretty sure it won't be the last!  

And if I need one more sign I'm on the right path...

...I find it on the way home.

As hard as it is sometimes, we just have to be here.  Now.

But now won't last forever.  

There are better places in the miles ahead.  Or at least I choose to think so.

And when we get there -- wherever and whenever that is -- the sidewalk will be ours to share.