tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30236501713301749292024-03-19T04:48:28.989-04:00A THOUSAND MILESRebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.comBlogger336125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-81750627387185497292023-12-07T10:07:00.005-05:002023-12-07T10:13:39.402-05:00Hope Walks In<p> "We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.</p><p>And just like that, hope walks in.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBcD7WaI4I1lQWH4_NbU84AtgH5TinyFKFBcOQXLLNL-EcdRjxAb3qmZtjrTJg0Nk252h6EtYJdjl80lMJySGKYbHytnrd7A9bw_0xojSpFkixWhTRJz3RVTL4IJ_ud2UZ-8Ymz2hrfeRVsWTnV_um_aWK138Yz3XjTJNkwr0FxTAjVn4DK5H9fx91RE/s2563/IMG_1620.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My prosthetic leg standing in front of a shoe rack, leaning on a dresser, plugged into my bedroom wall." border="0" data-original-height="2563" data-original-width="1922" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBcD7WaI4I1lQWH4_NbU84AtgH5TinyFKFBcOQXLLNL-EcdRjxAb3qmZtjrTJg0Nk252h6EtYJdjl80lMJySGKYbHytnrd7A9bw_0xojSpFkixWhTRJz3RVTL4IJ_ud2UZ-8Ymz2hrfeRVsWTnV_um_aWK138Yz3XjTJNkwr0FxTAjVn4DK5H9fx91RE/w240-h320/IMG_1620.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, how I've missed it!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-hardest-miles-of-all.html" target="_blank">2 months on crutches</a>, I tried to get my prosthesis on.</p><div style="text-align: left;">The <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/05/whats-in-new-socket.html" target="_blank">socket</a> didn't fit. At all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/if-socket-fits.html" target="_blank">Socket fit</a> is finicky, I know. I'd been struggling with it since my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/if-socket-fits.html" target="_blank">earliest miles</a> as an amputee. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, I'd been anticipating this moment -- easing my little leg gently into the prosthesis, standing on my own "two feet" again. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even if it wasn't quite perfect -- I knew it wouldn't be -- it would still be the first step to feeling like my old self. (Well, my old "new" self anyway.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When it didn't fit at all, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Six days later -- somewhere around <b>Mile 12,145</b> -- I arrive at <a href="https://www.prolimb.com/" target="_blank">Prosthetic Innovations</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I crutch through the parking lot heavily, weighed down by <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-hardest-miles-of-all.html" target="_blank">all that has changed</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But Prosthetist Tim isn't deterred. In fact, he seems happy to see me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I tell him about the fall, and how bruised my leg was afterward. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"It probably looked like your shirt," he says.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I glance down at my tie-dye t-shirt, splotches of blue and purple and gold and green. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yep. I laugh. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's good to be back.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tim gets out his measuring tape and loops it around my leg. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's still swollen from the fall. Or maybe its shape has just changed from the injury. Whatever the cause, it measures 3 1/2 cm larger than it used to. No wonder my prosthesis doesn't fit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tim brings out a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/04/glory.html" target="_blank">pull-bag</a>, a surefire method to get into an extra tight socket. I slide it over my liner. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We try again -- together -- to get my prosthesis on.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For a split second, I think it'll work. (Things usually work here, even when they don't at home!)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But... Nope.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I feel the shadow of discouragement.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And with those words, my insides light up. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He has a plan. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He'll make me a new socket. Maybe temporary. Maybe not. One that will fit my leg <i>now</i>, not as it used to be.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The SOONER the BETTER, he says.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I am 100% in.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We go into the <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/05/whats-in-new-socket.html" target="_blank">casting room</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Wrap my leg in plastic. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Don the <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2014/09/prosthetist-in-training.html" target="_blank">funny shorts</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4oHuh_VgNd3X2Knt80khM6GQXpgFctmp3lwL4-q0-1Z1AyWapMU-gLZfvZKa8_Y0cs9gtol4eJCQoq-9ocM-1SwBYZZ-6lB5qYyn-PlFCZ669e8rUJrvpAPMUbm4P7IkW8ePEy-Mhfvmms4g5OR22tCgn7UjQVk3PiHXq-PJvzdSJqVMNZoZFNMkdms/s1600/Casting%20pic.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me, in the casting room, wearing a pair of off-white knitted casting shorts." border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4oHuh_VgNd3X2Knt80khM6GQXpgFctmp3lwL4-q0-1Z1AyWapMU-gLZfvZKa8_Y0cs9gtol4eJCQoq-9ocM-1SwBYZZ-6lB5qYyn-PlFCZ669e8rUJrvpAPMUbm4P7IkW8ePEy-Mhfvmms4g5OR22tCgn7UjQVk3PiHXq-PJvzdSJqVMNZoZFNMkdms/w320-h240/Casting%20pic.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flashback to <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2014/09/prosthetist-in-training.html" target="_blank">Mile 2,015</a>.<br />They're always in style!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The drill is familiar -- and filled with hope.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>The cast will become a mold for a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/05/whats-in-new-socket.html" target="_blank">test-socket</a>, which'll be modified as many times as necessary until it captures the new shape of my residual limb.</div><div><br /></div><div>I loved my old socket, with its soft magenta interior and butterfly on the side. It had carried me through a lot.</div><div><br /></div><div>But maybe letting it go -- at least for now -- is the ticket to move forward.</div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Socket fit is a multi-step, patience-draining, fine-tuning process. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/if-socket-fits.html" target="_blank">earliest miles</a> with a prosthesis, my dad drove me back and forth to Prosthetic Innovations for fittings and adjustments. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I always felt down beforehand. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And up afterward.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It became a joke between us --</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I didn't just get a <i>leg adjustment</i>. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I got an <i>attitude adjustment</i> too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NGWnhWnPZ80UUJB054kkZxf_hmHxxfz-Y3IGrZX32xeP0ECYsQzUkq6VjPZJ0Gr5iSeJrI9hm1Wl1mD3W6UPcgpkS77dfedyB2_4FN8OnrTRooBi6jNTGSBbSB5m01lk3TQSM3xVCPsskwP4VIYr2pUFZTLZtonTS9tDN_zVc61Y59f8IZV355HEa8Q/s2272/My%20new%20leg.2.21.11.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me, standing in parallel bars, with my first prosthetic leg in February 2011." border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="1704" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NGWnhWnPZ80UUJB054kkZxf_hmHxxfz-Y3IGrZX32xeP0ECYsQzUkq6VjPZJ0Gr5iSeJrI9hm1Wl1mD3W6UPcgpkS77dfedyB2_4FN8OnrTRooBi6jNTGSBbSB5m01lk3TQSM3xVCPsskwP4VIYr2pUFZTLZtonTS9tDN_zVc61Y59f8IZV355HEa8Q/w240-h320/My%20new%20leg.2.21.11.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucky for us, <br />they were <i>buy one, get one free!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This time around I know what to expect. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The journey back to "two feet" is not going to be simple. It will likely be uncomfortable, maybe even painful at first. I'll have to rebuild my strength and tolerance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It will require perseverance, flexibility, and adjustment -- in both leg and attitude. :)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifqI5rCo1W1u-O4EFZ6GKguPRuXBr3uQJc7q8WGFV01XmI_GJFBuNAkH5Zy4na4nD7n5udYhL-0VmUNuKsseZcFGmqQ7D6zbE6epYATwvnv0jTyp3lPVR5kW4dOjjnyH7F4jK874y1nEsGC7jZBdJkVT7YHR1Opk-pE7fd-SmaehHTVJxqsQojuYQCqZQ/s4032/PI.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me, in tie-dye shirt, in front of a Christmas tree, a mannequin with a prosthetic arm and leg, and a banner than says "Welcome to the Next Level" at Prosthetic Innovations." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifqI5rCo1W1u-O4EFZ6GKguPRuXBr3uQJc7q8WGFV01XmI_GJFBuNAkH5Zy4na4nD7n5udYhL-0VmUNuKsseZcFGmqQ7D6zbE6epYATwvnv0jTyp3lPVR5kW4dOjjnyH7F4jK874y1nEsGC7jZBdJkVT7YHR1Opk-pE7fd-SmaehHTVJxqsQojuYQCqZQ/w320-h240/PI.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casting is just the first step.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I know about first steps too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And this one feels like a HOPEFUL start.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Walk on,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-42011029022246430232023-11-22T16:15:00.007-05:002023-11-22T18:10:38.958-05:00Keep Rising<p><b>Greetings from Mile 12,142 --</b></p><p>My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2h9pCYY3n_hoHkHnavUbjjeKqjSHQhknwSsrAoEg7FX7lqE9wR5JRPP142_NBTZxpLxBssDskfgeHPqAijGDVgJQpKYNETsL5O-1k9hC_UkEzJpR-QIWL6Ee0VZclyyNYGQ-pFnvED3aQ7NZcxzfNz6JB2AcZZs9L3Xv5erd_rUfUDoouvPrkbkgWaxM/s4032/IMG_1638.jpg"><img alt="A pile of pumpkin-cranberry muffins with a little figurine on top -- it's a cat baker holding a baguette on top of a "bakery" sandwich sign." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2h9pCYY3n_hoHkHnavUbjjeKqjSHQhknwSsrAoEg7FX7lqE9wR5JRPP142_NBTZxpLxBssDskfgeHPqAijGDVgJQpKYNETsL5O-1k9hC_UkEzJpR-QIWL6Ee0VZclyyNYGQ-pFnvED3aQ7NZcxzfNz6JB2AcZZs9L3Xv5erd_rUfUDoouvPrkbkgWaxM/w240-h320/IMG_1638.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Remember <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/09/angry-cookies.html" target="_blank">Angry Cookies</a>? </div><div style="text-align: left;">And <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2014/12/cookie-apocalypse.html" target="_blank">Cookie Apocalypse</a>?<br />And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2020/04/some-kind-of-cookies.html" target="_blank">something?</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Whenever I faced a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2018/11/being-change.html#more" target="_blank">tough patch</a>, baking always helped get me through. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/09/happyer.html" target="_blank">hobbling around in a "boot</a>" and <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-hardest-miles-of-all.html" target="_blank">on crutches</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Everything is a multistep process these days: getting ready for work, collecting the mail, traveling from Point A to Point B. I've become better at planning, more practiced at problem-solving. Steadier with a backpack. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But still, it's exhausting. And laced with <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-hardest-miles-of-all.html" target="_blank">loss</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had written off baking completely. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It just wasn't worth the energy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Two weeks after <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-hardest-miles-of-all.html" target="_blank">my dad's funeral</a>, my mom and I travel to Vermont. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I plan the trip and do the driving.<br />Mom is the <i>Sherpa</i>, lugging everything except my backpack. </div><div style="text-align: left;">(She's small but mighty!) <br /></div><p>We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/05/act-ii.html" target="_blank">dozens of times</a> over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.</p><p>In Danbury, we pass his favorite stop, the Blue Colony Diner. We start to text him a photo, and then realize we can't. When we reach Springfield, we want to tell him we've arrived. The car feels empty without him. </p><p>This trip is different. Everything is different.</p><p>Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.</p><p>Instead of connecting to I-89 at White River Junction, we drive 20 more miles up I-91 to a place I've never been but have always aspired to go...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kL70AyMluNgUC9-B2okfHxUT5xsso9g72jdqRdmpzx6DhTPSP3_mP3cB-dg1EY1V4jgXCOVMvoZDC5gAe8lglt85lF9PxfVU5hrM7x1CfmdBt-mOYt4kRsnbvm6smOQIwyzepyY5KY_HS7LeLz-2zipyHgIN5mkcsnQgjaAGH1JynyXCkpB5Cd1Xa90/s2016/IMG_1361.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The King Arthur Baking Company sign with a blue, cloud-filled sky behind, and the greenery of mountains." border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kL70AyMluNgUC9-B2okfHxUT5xsso9g72jdqRdmpzx6DhTPSP3_mP3cB-dg1EY1V4jgXCOVMvoZDC5gAe8lglt85lF9PxfVU5hrM7x1CfmdBt-mOYt4kRsnbvm6smOQIwyzepyY5KY_HS7LeLz-2zipyHgIN5mkcsnQgjaAGH1JynyXCkpB5Cd1Xa90/w240-h320/IMG_1361.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King Arthur Baking Company --<br />the headquarters!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. </p><div style="text-align: left;">The parking spaces are close. <br />The doors are automatic. <br />The restrooms are roomy. <br />The floors are smooth.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqb28iT_pugQlYceNaad9dD4-44OkrSzyczOBVRWW3z3nTEj6K0xrK0G_sQHPXyJndv_buBAVDNpb6kTQiS6QJKHwD8yYz5U-7QZtINKble2xNkzT-wqtVT1Ahyphenhyphen91m96z0JTr4u1d8mvkKzx23pjXP_PpsezJWgptw0JFi_tzBS59vDskgjAo03zRHgo/s853/image000000%20(3).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me, on crutches and one leg, in front of the King Arthur doors, which bear the sign "WELCOME" above." border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="680" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqb28iT_pugQlYceNaad9dD4-44OkrSzyczOBVRWW3z3nTEj6K0xrK0G_sQHPXyJndv_buBAVDNpb6kTQiS6QJKHwD8yYz5U-7QZtINKble2xNkzT-wqtVT1Ahyphenhyphen91m96z0JTr4u1d8mvkKzx23pjXP_PpsezJWgptw0JFi_tzBS59vDskgjAo03zRHgo/w255-h320/image000000%20(3).jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I feel absolutely welcome!!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...</div><p>KEEP RISING.</p><p>It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :) </p><p>We treat ourselves to true Vermont fare: fig and brie on a homemade baguette, a fall salad with maple dressing, steaming cups of cider with biodegradable lids. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VglldmgD26wuchY_ZnQ9RYZ9W7QCgSPZZP0_fxUBZoQjUuhm8DNSs5HEh2DE1D8oQdTLYiWL7ox46absUT0Cczp_wdsAjew8W_ATshpxcYChgIRfen4xEqLHfDTeQlU0C1rBAv9b7qj4f1ck8XluFNsu2O38UEeJWy0B_3cH6LpC5s1H-qTuGTBltSg/s2016/IMG_1363.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The wood-trimmed cafe counter, with blackboards hanging behind, and various pastries in the cases." border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VglldmgD26wuchY_ZnQ9RYZ9W7QCgSPZZP0_fxUBZoQjUuhm8DNSs5HEh2DE1D8oQdTLYiWL7ox46absUT0Cczp_wdsAjew8W_ATshpxcYChgIRfen4xEqLHfDTeQlU0C1rBAv9b7qj4f1ck8XluFNsu2O38UEeJWy0B_3cH6LpC5s1H-qTuGTBltSg/w320-h240/IMG_1363.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Then we poke around the factory store. It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread. <p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uk_a9iTvopUigXjh2QQ-rBYFiDlG3NCuLAg7aEOYbznVCBoj0aJrOevDAYKo87CkDGBFIg_FhMpUaPPfuD8CZ-Ln21jYQ66diOSYg9zHaV_nbLy46L2VCJ-04N-h7Ir-sVJphGQS9y4GJJCSKQiub2mdyKlCO0Ul3K7b3wBDu4TveYnQD3CngRsmHgE/s2016/IMG_1366.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My little mom in front of the King Arthur logo on a gray wall, pushing a shopping cart with 3 bags inside." border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uk_a9iTvopUigXjh2QQ-rBYFiDlG3NCuLAg7aEOYbznVCBoj0aJrOevDAYKo87CkDGBFIg_FhMpUaPPfuD8CZ-Ln21jYQ66diOSYg9zHaV_nbLy46L2VCJ-04N-h7Ir-sVJphGQS9y4GJJCSKQiub2mdyKlCO0Ul3K7b3wBDu4TveYnQD3CngRsmHgE/w240-h320/IMG_1366.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom does all the carting and carrying!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while. We both are. But it's not exhausting. </p><p>It's renewing.</p><p>Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XMQWS5JHqpDqFD2eQLOBkx3-m-AtIxZE3tkUTiDYvqEQ4e_2Quqrs5ZINhuYCfMGkTvgHgScdpSw8LZd79zsINyIcWGlqUtGEL5bEO0AC_oey5l0nx0CwLoCJppYGuOVhy-FEOG38KPV6I6Do5SBX2VdHcRslNx0ChkBqhlSG9EDbgWw-DYLJDBhMCI/s4032/IMG_1386.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me, my 2 nieces, my nephew, and my sister." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XMQWS5JHqpDqFD2eQLOBkx3-m-AtIxZE3tkUTiDYvqEQ4e_2Quqrs5ZINhuYCfMGkTvgHgScdpSw8LZd79zsINyIcWGlqUtGEL5bEO0AC_oey5l0nx0CwLoCJppYGuOVhy-FEOG38KPV6I6Do5SBX2VdHcRslNx0ChkBqhlSG9EDbgWw-DYLJDBhMCI/w320-h240/IMG_1386.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They don't even notice the delay!</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.</p><p>At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.</p><div style="text-align: left;">I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.<br />Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Stand when I need more leverage.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's just different. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I plan out each step. Try to be organized. Stand up. Sit down. Stand up again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I <i>want</i> to do, not <i>have </i>to do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1M_Lx_qf8cw7qNbao6rOQ6ym1IKOceodO6lp0kp7-5OpSYFW6jx9lUymrLxZKPeP1pFZVO42xVJelZSYlVCyQ4I0Ol658zH14-PC17svCarhujYJEVuqG7Y40WCeAHUA8GNKP2QO2YqOgDTehZ0eGi7QSoaUcwLRHHVcHMkWNRI6sLdjXQ2wPITSiOM/s4032/IMG_1611.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="My kitchen counter covered with bowls, measuring spoons, and many ingredients." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1M_Lx_qf8cw7qNbao6rOQ6ym1IKOceodO6lp0kp7-5OpSYFW6jx9lUymrLxZKPeP1pFZVO42xVJelZSYlVCyQ4I0Ol658zH14-PC17svCarhujYJEVuqG7Y40WCeAHUA8GNKP2QO2YqOgDTehZ0eGi7QSoaUcwLRHHVcHMkWNRI6sLdjXQ2wPITSiOM/w320-h240/IMG_1611.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">I measure and stir and crack a few eggs. <br />Drip oil down my sleeve. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Drop wrappers on the floor.<br />Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My hands are busy. My mind is focused.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Disorder becomes order. </div><p>And that mess on the kitchen counter? </p><p>It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN9lCQcafBj-dfXj-V3IQtIjMiUBz4VXFUxMC8KdkSLl3rauJRai4ZRiHpVArhd8JIcVflmTA0GH1vksP0nUk-qDHHm11AfuwLde31_csiN9Oqkwoqjq-mh43JAIPOzZNXyu8-CRRYFPmYekCi9Vrc3eG00IgAVM3hyphenhyphenDNHjYBwAhrShj6yAPqDGL2484/s4032/IMG_1614.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A baked, golden pumpkin-cranberry bread on a metal cooling rack." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN9lCQcafBj-dfXj-V3IQtIjMiUBz4VXFUxMC8KdkSLl3rauJRai4ZRiHpVArhd8JIcVflmTA0GH1vksP0nUk-qDHHm11AfuwLde31_csiN9Oqkwoqjq-mh43JAIPOzZNXyu8-CRRYFPmYekCi9Vrc3eG00IgAVM3hyphenhyphenDNHjYBwAhrShj6yAPqDGL2484/w240-h320/IMG_1614.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pumpkin-cranberry bread<br />to share, gratefully, with friends.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Making time for who and what we love is <i>always</i> worth the trip.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhKAavDUSV1mk2K8r8HRcwca7Xw0d5Ttq9QQVDqsn7gaxOf6RUIXFUPnbGJyYqGdtc3AVroet_1Qp3q8yqhEt-fWin8oPUva9APeQBUtP7sOrLj9j6pT4bkXWzD3hQ0yF1b5MAytjshEqC2c4jsvyrmG2sjxbZHVsV3_tJNvGJ9lC9k27BibDEjDhcLR0/s1213/image000000%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me, with crutches, standing next to a sign at King Arthur Baking Company that says, "We are Bakers."" border="0" data-original-height="1213" data-original-width="1199" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhKAavDUSV1mk2K8r8HRcwca7Xw0d5Ttq9QQVDqsn7gaxOf6RUIXFUPnbGJyYqGdtc3AVroet_1Qp3q8yqhEt-fWin8oPUva9APeQBUtP7sOrLj9j6pT4bkXWzD3hQ0yF1b5MAytjshEqC2c4jsvyrmG2sjxbZHVsV3_tJNvGJ9lC9k27BibDEjDhcLR0/w316-h320/image000000%20(1).jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">KEEP RISING. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!</div><div><br /></div><div>Bake on,</div><div><span style="font-family: "Homemade Apple";">Rebecca</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Homemade Apple";"><br /></span></div><div><i>P.S. Recipe here: </i> <a href="https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/pumpkin-cranberry-bread-13435" target="_blank">Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-83519192769518125342023-11-11T12:01:00.049-05:002023-11-13T17:30:33.382-05:00The Hardest Miles of All<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyoC86gLSge4ePeuxXKg8L8PsEFVYWEm-Sdd1EWnqjbn9-zVpMXrMF4nkplBozbHyIFDCydlelFkuJCIZUFgXEQJJlK_2MJv8WRjY-VTYBRVH0hWFUlAmcPQBDjzf8R01IdIK1fhP9wjQhbHNnQbwos_bSJ4b_EmpLoQhBud8bTsHIZtHGUj3gu1A6Ec/s4032/Crutch%20bag.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyoC86gLSge4ePeuxXKg8L8PsEFVYWEm-Sdd1EWnqjbn9-zVpMXrMF4nkplBozbHyIFDCydlelFkuJCIZUFgXEQJJlK_2MJv8WRjY-VTYBRVH0hWFUlAmcPQBDjzf8R01IdIK1fhP9wjQhbHNnQbwos_bSJ4b_EmpLoQhBud8bTsHIZtHGUj3gu1A6Ec/w150-h200/Crutch%20bag.jpg" width="150" /></a></b></div><p><b>I've lost track of the miles.</b></p><p>I haven't worn my prosthetic leg in a month.</p><p>But today I roll the liner on. </p><p>Hey, it's a start. One step closer to moving again. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Confidence bolstered, I tuck a travel mug into my crutch bag. Balance on one leg and lock the door behind me. Take the elevator down. </div><p>I open the first door to the lobby. I've mastered a maneuver I call the "one-handed hop-thru." A crutch dangles from my forearm. </p><p>Then -- before I can change my mind -- I push through the second door too, and hop out onto the sidewalk. Quick. Like pulling off a band-aid. </p><p>Here I go!</p><p><i>Crutch, step. Crutch, step. </i></p><p>One city block down Arch Street. On my own.</p><p>With a ridiculous amount of courage, I make it to Starbucks.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1s6g1KwkedYE9KczN79j2ZypbNRrlteke4TxlqOYT_36EVt9UVNPvfrSCY5C-gNl-qxDmiN_kdn8VPpl-Nzt3jcNv0plcBBwXK6aSRChMAOLFA8YsLnlyP4GF76EF0wGnSyhImguXRM9LqymOn8MABBilqOJLphdLfpEtOe88rfQ6ia20UCZagMj84Q/s4032/Crutches%20Walk.11.6.23.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me and my friend Richard in Starbucks. Richard is waving." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1s6g1KwkedYE9KczN79j2ZypbNRrlteke4TxlqOYT_36EVt9UVNPvfrSCY5C-gNl-qxDmiN_kdn8VPpl-Nzt3jcNv0plcBBwXK6aSRChMAOLFA8YsLnlyP4GF76EF0wGnSyhImguXRM9LqymOn8MABBilqOJLphdLfpEtOe88rfQ6ia20UCZagMj84Q/w320-h240/Crutches%20Walk.11.6.23.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Richard treats me to my first coffee in a long time.</td></tr></tbody></table>And I am ridiculously proud of myself.<br /><p></p><p><i>This is it, </i>I think. <i> </i><i>I'm moving again!</i></p><p>-----</p><p>Mile 12,141 was my last noticeable mileage. </p><p>It happened toward the end of September. Back then -- maybe you remember -- I was limping around on a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/09/happyer.html" target="_blank">stress-fractured right foot</a>. </p><p>I relied on my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/09/happyer.html" target="_blank">car</a> to get around. I wore a boot on my right leg and a prosthetic on my left. My longest walk was in and out of the hospital, where my dad was a patient.</p><p>I ignored my own discomfort, minor in comparison.</p><p>----</p><p>On October 9, my dad passed away. </p><p>And I haven't counted miles since.</p><p></p><p>My <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/mom-and-dad.html" target="_blank">dad</a> was my very first walking partner -- both before and after my accident.</p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIojXdUlmVTE5CGO2CWU5CsuW8UqhdBVj4v_SYhLpuvdfEnxpWrXGw3xc8AhITZkqT_nWnGM9dxE6obpx1acyGQriJ5Rq-OEFmuYKZZ-UlFa0gudiigDZuIrzlIKFIbe8Clbhx9LjFTyLuOpZhFYXAMg8GZ5A4KGKqBI_V9fv72sou4DPyu7RtGJP1mzg/s327/scan0205.jpg" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="A very young dad, in black rimmed glasses, holding me as an infant." border="0" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="327" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIojXdUlmVTE5CGO2CWU5CsuW8UqhdBVj4v_SYhLpuvdfEnxpWrXGw3xc8AhITZkqT_nWnGM9dxE6obpx1acyGQriJ5Rq-OEFmuYKZZ-UlFa0gudiigDZuIrzlIKFIbe8Clbhx9LjFTyLuOpZhFYXAMg8GZ5A4KGKqBI_V9fv72sou4DPyu7RtGJP1mzg/w320-h295/scan0205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>This blog is filled with our walks...</p><div style="text-align: left;">He's pushing me, a sleepless infant, in a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/mom-and-dad.html" target="_blank">baby carriage</a>,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or around the block, post-surgery, in a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/04/love-ride.html" target="_blank">wheelchair</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He's with me on my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/mom-and-dad.html" target="_blank">earliest miles with a prosthesis</a>, </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy99iBM8bMb1KU59KYlQ94B0VVtqIv0iwtb5MtXa7QHhd0aRQfL-SMM56OncsXdEU3p7cqiipBXH2d7M88PkWGpRboQni1epgjKfhutR2sQDa5aK4XSK8PEKR2LRoDjAC4zCceG8EeWy2zdTUMeCWjcKUj8dRMGqOy6LnJdA82Fw8GOD4EcBdv0a8UOI/s480/Dad%20flyers%20game.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="270" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy99iBM8bMb1KU59KYlQ94B0VVtqIv0iwtb5MtXa7QHhd0aRQfL-SMM56OncsXdEU3p7cqiipBXH2d7M88PkWGpRboQni1epgjKfhutR2sQDa5aK4XSK8PEKR2LRoDjAC4zCceG8EeWy2zdTUMeCWjcKUj8dRMGqOy6LnJdA82Fw8GOD4EcBdv0a8UOI/w225-h400/Dad%20flyers%20game.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and behind the scenes<br />at <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2017/03/growing-up-flyers.html" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">Flyers games</a>.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">He guided me through <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2017/01/on-good-leg-day.html" target="_blank">easy days</a> and <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/10/to-remember.html" target="_blank">hard ones</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He accompanied me on adventures...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RMoaUGH-jzm1CgwLvzpneJG4jRhXmyarhG8TvsgwmRkvchBv7-6jZLzxn8x64nJ6YusgY6BukGo6X7OTOt6tXtq5xmgVTA20feNbk2szr_GhJswH1rkIW3Y30jokeqf_iS9_DuzSWQq3RkwmbsBfqExzSflFajOYnmIgR9boU9J_02gk5MiSz3NWCDs/s800/IMG_6718.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RMoaUGH-jzm1CgwLvzpneJG4jRhXmyarhG8TvsgwmRkvchBv7-6jZLzxn8x64nJ6YusgY6BukGo6X7OTOt6tXtq5xmgVTA20feNbk2szr_GhJswH1rkIW3Y30jokeqf_iS9_DuzSWQq3RkwmbsBfqExzSflFajOYnmIgR9boU9J_02gk5MiSz3NWCDs/s320/IMG_6718.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">to find prosthetics in <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2014/01/winter-break.html" target="_blank">the least likely places</a>!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>He taught me to drive, <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2014/01/winter-break.html" target="_blank">took me on road trips</a>, and <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-green-goblin.html" target="_blank">helped me buy cars</a>. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRODWnNr6Ur5ytq4kgVrLdLbePVT4PlacL8GaN5b_2da3ktYsGHoXRh7OwsogEAv568ia8AiczE3Md4F90X12smATPeMZURKHYBHSqteS1u4ZDXEb1zeMBt_fkodqv0U-pTOUjLO-wDGZCswSHSxJ7KH0nTgJP-xAO6tZQaWsV97SpRLW820L5iyUlJA/s3088/Dad%20car.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of Dad and me in the front seat of the car." border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRODWnNr6Ur5ytq4kgVrLdLbePVT4PlacL8GaN5b_2da3ktYsGHoXRh7OwsogEAv568ia8AiczE3Md4F90X12smATPeMZURKHYBHSqteS1u4ZDXEb1zeMBt_fkodqv0U-pTOUjLO-wDGZCswSHSxJ7KH0nTgJP-xAO6tZQaWsV97SpRLW820L5iyUlJA/w320-h240/Dad%20car.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He drove me to <br />many (many!) appointments.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>All along, he let me pave my own path -- and then he ran defense, removing every obstacle in my way. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qcbO58AoRHuwSqI6lNchSnImDbfCBBktFFLfBasvPN7YinhYy_svsMW7-X77vrrCyQn7Nj6Pso4GPI4WT2MJG_y9Z3A4wZQe1XS1_Q0d4j_yOX5_vNBGjG0Q0G3MqUKnVFmDkktvEyHYnzGvCNjK5PJgPTSke_tPX7aLAAejj94R4MlW00UaYRemFjA/s2048/photo%20(6).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My dad standing over me, with my mom sitting next to me, as I lay in a bed in the ICU." border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qcbO58AoRHuwSqI6lNchSnImDbfCBBktFFLfBasvPN7YinhYy_svsMW7-X77vrrCyQn7Nj6Pso4GPI4WT2MJG_y9Z3A4wZQe1XS1_Q0d4j_yOX5_vNBGjG0Q0G3MqUKnVFmDkktvEyHYnzGvCNjK5PJgPTSke_tPX7aLAAejj94R4MlW00UaYRemFjA/w320-h240/photo%20(6).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No matter what challenges our family faced, <br />my dad knew what steps to take.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>And always -- even through his own long illness -- he held onto HOPE.</p><p>So did we.</p><p>----</p><p>The day he died, I lost my balance.</p><p>I was at my parents' house with the whole family. At sunset, I went out to move my car into the driveway. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujQAeFYR1gAWlNPc6cfVTSt8OLbtQ4LawEjxgPKnsikA8Pd1VhDZ7g0w1mdprTP4uOLPr015XIKRyfjJf7uANY4BXwGw5YNmn3Jra9FpFIdGDVEqn79j3GHqfoAsc1E-okMv0FRk2PGKmsxOWKjuOEcx21WJ6yF9pjcGgfD9pmjCf4MDqTbAlZOM_6Vw/s2016/IMG_1248%20no%20lic%20plate.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujQAeFYR1gAWlNPc6cfVTSt8OLbtQ4LawEjxgPKnsikA8Pd1VhDZ7g0w1mdprTP4uOLPr015XIKRyfjJf7uANY4BXwGw5YNmn3Jra9FpFIdGDVEqn79j3GHqfoAsc1E-okMv0FRk2PGKmsxOWKjuOEcx21WJ6yF9pjcGgfD9pmjCf4MDqTbAlZOM_6Vw/s320/IMG_1248%20no%20lic%20plate.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was the <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/09/happyer.html" target="_blank">new car</a> we'd picked out together<br />from his hospital room.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We stayed up all night by his bedside. I took off my prosthesis at midnight. </p><p>We lost him two hours later.</p><p>As the sun rose, I went downstairs on crutches to email my job and let them know I wouldn't be in. I sat down at the laptop and typed:</p><p><i>My dad passed away early this morning.</i> </p><p>The words came out on autopilot, like when you walk without realizing how lucky you are. </p><p>I hit send. </p><p>Then, as I stood up and reached for my crutches, I lost my balance.</p><p>And fell.</p><p>I landed directly on my residual limb -- my little leg -- hitting it so hard the ceiling turned to stars.</p><div style="text-align: left;">I haven't been able to wear my prosthesis since.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I miss my dad.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I miss my leg. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I miss walking.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I know these things aren't equal, but in the brokenness, they've become intertwined. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">----</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I make it home safely with my coffee. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Set the travel mug on the kitchen counter.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Crutch into the bedroom.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Gently, I roll off my prosthetic liner. <i>Phew!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I just can't tolerate it yet. My little leg aches from the pressure and rubbing. My femur is still so sore. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I spray some alcohol on the liner to clean it. And that's when it occurs to me:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The last time I did this was exactly <i>one month ago</i> -- at midnight. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My dad was in the next room. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still alive.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>I feel his fingers in mine. </div><div>See his smile.</div><div>Hear his voice. </div><div>Smell his aftershave.</div><div><br /></div><div>The thoughts are both fragile and flooding.</div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">This whole month, I've been struggling to keep moving, with or without my leg. I've been pushing forward -- full speed ahead -- determined to get back to the way things were before. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But in this moment, I realize that's not what I need.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I need to pause. Where I am. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To think about him. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Remember him.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Write about him.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I need to take time to feel my dad's absence -- and miss him -- with all my body and heart.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's been a long journey, but these are the hardest miles of all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">----</div><p>November 9 was my "Alive Day." </p><p>It marked 13 years since the accident -- and one month without my dad.</p><p>In the days ahead, I'll think about our walks together, keep the memories close, and wish he were here.</p><p>I'll make time for what's important. And give myself space to breathe.</p><div>I'll take small steps, slowly and slightly off-balance. Mostly for coffee. </div><div><br /></div><div>And as I navigate the sidewalk, I will remember how lucky I am to be out. Walking. On one leg or two.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know what this next year will bring. </div><p>But I will hold onto HOPE. Always. </p><p>Just like he did.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uVECVeYJGlNmdOytmRy0pmfn216OnGmWyfYw-eRYRwGg685O7DQoLjlb0LgpOOcrHUMkk8RcnDxKzSDdQr7sdPSKorePimIJ_FJN7IDAZgDtr7Jm-D9wLXyNtWyaMRX7m_6xjzHb4oPVrT50-siarT_NICTOTFhs8TY8c-3SQ6nAYUpz4A2EmBouXWY/s1412/scan0237.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My dad and I outside a football stadium. He's wearing Penn State gear and I'm wearing Northwestern." border="0" data-original-height="1356" data-original-width="1412" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uVECVeYJGlNmdOytmRy0pmfn216OnGmWyfYw-eRYRwGg685O7DQoLjlb0LgpOOcrHUMkk8RcnDxKzSDdQr7sdPSKorePimIJ_FJN7IDAZgDtr7Jm-D9wLXyNtWyaMRX7m_6xjzHb4oPVrT50-siarT_NICTOTFhs8TY8c-3SQ6nAYUpz4A2EmBouXWY/w320-h307/scan0237.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love you, Dad.<br />Miss you, Dad.</td></tr></tbody></table><div>xo,<br /><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-76939509984114518462023-09-04T12:51:00.011-04:002023-09-04T16:00:43.152-04:00Happy(er)<p><b><i>Beep beep!</i> from Mile Marker 12,111...</b></p><p>On our first ride together, I can't find the odometer. </p><p>Then I see this two-digit number at the bottom of the dash.</p><p><i>40 mi.</i></p><p>40 miles? For this trip? </p><p>Nope. Just 40 miles. </p><p>Total. </p><p><i>That's</i> the odometer -- haha!</p><p>It's the first smile we share. :)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4POGbH-P3rsd1r4sfOkZz42NOCgRHZqpxwp6CdzQYtDlU7gGUVA2Slr-SgOD-OMAEP1OeaNAzOFUhdvlFcw05mJlbyyqorPw5LlouK1gnYlN1xvq3yR7EQl4vEpLqjnHXvZPxKvbXJyfxyTI15E5d5n74atv6xUWDT3Wx0FCVbrIgYwMw6uFGoot9NY/s4032/New%20car.9.1.23.3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me standing in front of a red Hyundai Venue, a small SUV with a silver roof rack." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4POGbH-P3rsd1r4sfOkZz42NOCgRHZqpxwp6CdzQYtDlU7gGUVA2Slr-SgOD-OMAEP1OeaNAzOFUhdvlFcw05mJlbyyqorPw5LlouK1gnYlN1xvq3yR7EQl4vEpLqjnHXvZPxKvbXJyfxyTI15E5d5n74atv6xUWDT3Wx0FCVbrIgYwMw6uFGoot9NY/w240-h320/New%20car.9.1.23.3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy new car!</td></tr></tbody></table><p><i>Screech! Reverse...</i></p><p>I did not want to get a new car. </p><p>Or a new microwave. Or a new toilet. </p><p>I did not want my apartment's HVAC to clink and clank like there's a ping pong ball in the pipes. </p><p>I did not want to send my prosthesis in for maintenance the week before I left for Paris. And I definitely did not want to brew a stress fracture in my right foot (a.k.a. real foot) the week I returned.</p><div>I haven't walked in more than a month, aside from what's absolutely necessary. Do I sound irritable? I'm irritable.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/04/do-morning-mile.html#more" target="_blank">Morning miles</a> were a way to shape my day. </div><div>Without them, I've lost some momentum.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the world of illness and injury, these are <i>all </i>small things. </div><p>I know. I get it.</p><p>But they happen in the context of bigger things. </p><p><br /></p><p>A few weeks ago, I heard this line on a <i><a href="https://storycorps.org/" target="_blank">StoryCorps</a></i> podcast:</p><p><i>Always look where you want to go, not where you want to avoid.</i></p><p>It was advice from a dad to his son, who was learning to drive. </p><p>It made me realize how much I've been focusing on what I want to avoid these days -- pain, struggle, frustration, anger, fatigue -- all those sensations we feel when things (big or small) break down and pile up. Some days, all I can think about is what's broken.</p><p>But dads are wise. </p><p>Especially when it comes to cars.</p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">At Mile 12,111, I wake up early, with fresh perspective and new energy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's Labor Day. </div><div style="text-align: left;">September. </div><div style="text-align: left;">(Old teaching habits live on.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And I have this thought:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Not everything is happy, b</i><i>ut could I make things a little... happier?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Instead of a sluggish start at home, I rush through my routine, get my leg on, and go out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Walk (or limp) into the parking garage. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Get in the car. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Drive to CVS.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's a mere 2 blocks from the apartment -- somewhere I used to walk -- but hey, who's counting? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I hobble in for a quick errand. And then, the magic happens.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My new car and I conjure up the tiniest little adventure. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKHGwCLYkgFiL1fyVe_KghaKWdCuA4QRnmM8exEv-UkgB8ASSe9gLkNq_sfi9yrVbDGuvDhkTiAwbHj_8ZR0edD-RxM4ClAycwdBaaUq7T2pXr7djbDOuS7TyeokLILkp2GjvSp3C10MZtmiQizPf7IqEh8mAn6ahY6rHDdGf71cZU6fntFlpDL0LX4c/s1280/New%20car.9.1.23.4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My car's dashboard, with the 100 mi. on the odometer circled in a heart." border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="961" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKHGwCLYkgFiL1fyVe_KghaKWdCuA4QRnmM8exEv-UkgB8ASSe9gLkNq_sfi9yrVbDGuvDhkTiAwbHj_8ZR0edD-RxM4ClAycwdBaaUq7T2pXr7djbDOuS7TyeokLILkp2GjvSp3C10MZtmiQizPf7IqEh8mAn6ahY6rHDdGf71cZU6fntFlpDL0LX4c/w240-h320/New%20car.9.1.23.4.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Cause we've gotta celebrate Mile 100! </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We drive to the Italian Market, where <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2016/06/wish-wall.html" target="_blank">Gleaner's Café</a> has just opened. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's my old favorite coffee spot -- one I can only reach on 4 wheels.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I pull out my coffee card and realize I've earned a free cup. Better yet, I snag one of the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CwpugsMuQ-Y/?img_index=1" target="_blank">last Hershey's Kisses</a> in Gleaner's history!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLX6Zi44YCgMKVH5fusuWdRA3QwQJRnNERcD4TIYrCNriD4f-049AcMG5XAxC8iWVoezyUe8XjNo2Pm6o3vA8PwOtS3B1fkKOAyykQQsxCnTkcJyBc70qX66-Q0jNde6WVcz4wEoHKTP5Qy8fuFfcun9CMkTMmqescdcoj0fqhYhRXgZUCJ5tF1irB7J0/s2016/Gleaners.5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A small coffee in a paper cup with a Hershey's Kiss next to it on the counter at Gleaner's Café" border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLX6Zi44YCgMKVH5fusuWdRA3QwQJRnNERcD4TIYrCNriD4f-049AcMG5XAxC8iWVoezyUe8XjNo2Pm6o3vA8PwOtS3B1fkKOAyykQQsxCnTkcJyBc70qX66-Q0jNde6WVcz4wEoHKTP5Qy8fuFfcun9CMkTMmqescdcoj0fqhYhRXgZUCJ5tF1irB7J0/w240-h320/Gleaners.5.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woo-hoo!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><p>It's a small happy thing -- which makes me think of other happy things, big and small.</p><p>Through all the obstacles this summer, I'm grateful for family and friends who've come to my rescue and supported me along the way. </p><p>I picked up my new car on September 1. </p><p>I chose her carefully with love and guidance from -- you guessed it -- my dad.</p><p>And maybe it sounds silly, but...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHLazeD6UAg9Uo74Su8vAEyTvKNzCVFrViONZH7E64wL_MjqKrdXum1pkSZg0x52G875o1PkBfm3fGObbrT_Lg7Oq6nIUX7dFILGyTtO0t5ypDL323ZmF33DWQ89TcV63SEjLNi2_IBcPL95t51uxAanFO-BjsinbJHcfJTHd0DPMxfB61Sj05NzQlGM/s1544/Gleaners.6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me holding a coffee with a Hershey's Kiss on top in front of my new red car." border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1158" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHLazeD6UAg9Uo74Su8vAEyTvKNzCVFrViONZH7E64wL_MjqKrdXum1pkSZg0x52G875o1PkBfm3fGObbrT_Lg7Oq6nIUX7dFILGyTtO0t5ypDL323ZmF33DWQ89TcV63SEjLNi2_IBcPL95t51uxAanFO-BjsinbJHcfJTHd0DPMxfB61Sj05NzQlGM/w240-h320/Gleaners.6.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think she's HAPPY to be mine!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Drive safe. Be happy(er).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div></div><p><br /></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-82624776863871721672023-08-13T12:17:00.013-04:002023-08-13T12:52:22.247-04:00Where Would You Walk?<p><b>Mile Marker 12,072:</b></p><p>I'm grounded at home this weekend.</p><p>I was supposed to be visiting my favorite <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2015/09/small-happiness.html" target="_blank">Vermonters</a>. I'd bought an airline ticket and everything!</p><p>Then, out of nowhere, my right foot starts aching. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sd-Rn4c-Oeh1kK2cNqqkMDgnuiN3Dlf2FtkU7pne9snEJnB2YQ3WGRt4Sa7gV1of35qPCDAksRNQ6D3QlamNO0Q1610gRYNXzAoWLQWhBFwgIYQ4XvZW-tBzSLaoz40KMfiI7S35KN3o3KdVCto26i_fX8XD5yRKYHIyQPWbyIizyhTLVi3zdMJVcrs/s4032/IMG_0053.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My feet in Tevo sandals - one prosthetic, one real - toenails painted pink." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sd-Rn4c-Oeh1kK2cNqqkMDgnuiN3Dlf2FtkU7pne9snEJnB2YQ3WGRt4Sa7gV1of35qPCDAksRNQ6D3QlamNO0Q1610gRYNXzAoWLQWhBFwgIYQ4XvZW-tBzSLaoz40KMfiI7S35KN3o3KdVCto26i_fX8XD5yRKYHIyQPWbyIizyhTLVi3zdMJVcrs/w240-h320/IMG_0053.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Yes... the <i>real </i>one<i>.</i>)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Technically, it isn't out of nowhere. </p><p>I often get right foot pain, especially at the end of the day. Sometimes my knee swells, or my ankle, or both. Like most unilateral amputees, I depend on my "sound side" for balance and performance. A solid step with my right leg makes my prosthetic knee bend more fluently -- and my gait more natural. Plus, you can't wear a prosthesis 24/7. When I take my leg off, my sound side does 100% of the work. </p><p>It's called "overuse."</p><p>At first, it's just a pang when I step down on the ball of my foot. I ignore it and keep walking. </p><p>But a few days later, I can barely bear weight.</p><div style="text-align: left;">Cue the alarms. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I NEED TO PROTECT MY RIGHT FOOT. </div><div style="text-align: left;">IT'S THE ONLY ONE I HAVE.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">(This has happened <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-need-for-speed.html" target="_blank">before</a>, but I don't want to think about it. If <i>you</i> want, you can read about it <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-need-for-speed.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) </div><p>And so... </p><p>Twenty-four hours before departure, I make the best -- and only -- decision for my body. </p><p>I cancel the whole trip. </p><p>At that very moment, <a href="https://www.thediscoverer.com/blog/the-most-walkable-city-on-each-continent/ZCdJchG9cAAI0DX4?utm_source=blog&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=1876324170" target="_blank">an article</a> lands in my inbox: </p><p><i><a href="https://www.thediscoverer.com/blog/the-most-walkable-city-on-each-continent/ZCdJchG9cAAI0DX4?utm_source=blog&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=1876324170" target="_blank">The Most Walkable City on Each Continent</a></i>.</p><p>Cruel joke? Maybe.</p><p>I click on it anyway.</p><p>While I'm on hold with the airline, I open up <i>Kayak</i> and plug in the recommended cities.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Boston</li><li>Madrid</li><li>Marrakech</li><li>Buenos Aires</li><li>Wellington</li><li>Hoi An</li></ul></div><p>Just for kicks, I set my travel dates for September. (It's <i>my</i> fantasy, so why not celebrate my birthday in Spain?)</p>I imagine an epic, multi-city, around-the-world trip for the <i>sole purpose</i> (pun intended) of doing the one thing I cannot do at this very moment.<p></p><p>WALK.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBuh096DN3GsewuubN_sUB5xsMRlRvxm35TI8LwsL7ymUlR3_sy2e-ZpkWW2TEAjY97W_xugudr-4K1hLRYi53i7I-ntOOLg8Gdnu1Tk8YZuKS2E4YqzDpdYmhKbeo9pB9Wq3MUa_b-0H1BmguyTnRL6Py9gaYpMJiWp98zLYsZjzuYNjAvTAT6mfvG8/s1481/Screenshot%20(43).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A screenshot of a flight itinerary from Kayak - with the price $2,772." border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="1481" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBuh096DN3GsewuubN_sUB5xsMRlRvxm35TI8LwsL7ymUlR3_sy2e-ZpkWW2TEAjY97W_xugudr-4K1hLRYi53i7I-ntOOLg8Gdnu1Tk8YZuKS2E4YqzDpdYmhKbeo9pB9Wq3MUa_b-0H1BmguyTnRL6Py9gaYpMJiWp98zLYsZjzuYNjAvTAT6mfvG8/w400-h280/Screenshot%20(43).png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, it's cheaper than you'd think!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Dreaming of travel has always been a coping mechanism for me. </p><p>Years ago, I'd spend lunchtimes at work scrolling through "E-saver" flights and "Travelzoo" discounts. (Remember those?)</p><p>In the months after the accident, when I sat teary-eyed in my therapist's office -- certain I'd "never go anywhere ever again" -- she encouraged me to hop on over to Amazon and find <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2018/09/10-books-that-made-difference.html" target="_blank">books</a> that would take me places.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6xSp_CxgwII0fJgCVfqIunY8OKuiJdAmKh7o1iITfLLXMD6Z89vC_YZGmkd1L4YhqdvHE09bm1Rr_iFZIh142soN1I4YAcbX6Efv850iYN-oR4qrDOrmdGcvPkah5N2ZJ6jS-WhhoMOx6j2vxjfewr1xuNfcCGg1GkAMksBaSbwrnSCQ_61IoEpWXh8/s3779/Resting%20Foot.7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A hardcover cookbook - Around my French Table, by Dorie Greenspan" border="0" data-original-height="3779" data-original-width="2834" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6xSp_CxgwII0fJgCVfqIunY8OKuiJdAmKh7o1iITfLLXMD6Z89vC_YZGmkd1L4YhqdvHE09bm1Rr_iFZIh142soN1I4YAcbX6Efv850iYN-oR4qrDOrmdGcvPkah5N2ZJ6jS-WhhoMOx6j2vxjfewr1xuNfcCGg1GkAMksBaSbwrnSCQ_61IoEpWXh8/w240-h320/Resting%20Foot.7.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I ordered this one first --<br />And it was too heavy to lift on my crutches!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Later, <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/04/walking-wish-list.html" target="_blank">400 miles</a> into this journey -- recovering from yet another surgery -- I wrote my own <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/04/walking-wish-list.html" target="_blank">Walking Wish List</a>. </p><p>All the places I'd walk <i>IF</i> or <i>WHEN</i> I could...</p><p>Click <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/04/walking-wish-list.html" target="_blank">here</a> to see it.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiB0q4tmR_2yBLZ7YSUonVwlPIHjR1M6AmQe2zsQ47jCTASu35YlygG6mQDF6VCjEe_WTBeirYfllfC5sVGOV5CWSPr7OhWmeIV7okHhkxqT86HNNNJKajzb8iTG5zdRjyu1d5bjKVSEkBYiQiWR_FPNOQSjJLR0HtgQl3B-pSecnqhG6L0f2kZrvDGgo/s1600/Walking%20Wish%20List.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me, in a wheelchair, after revision surgery on my leg, holding up Mile signs "416" and "417"" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiB0q4tmR_2yBLZ7YSUonVwlPIHjR1M6AmQe2zsQ47jCTASu35YlygG6mQDF6VCjEe_WTBeirYfllfC5sVGOV5CWSPr7OhWmeIV7okHhkxqT86HNNNJKajzb8iTG5zdRjyu1d5bjKVSEkBYiQiWR_FPNOQSjJLR0HtgQl3B-pSecnqhG6L0f2kZrvDGgo/w240-h320/Walking%20Wish%20List.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now, I'm amazed at how many<br />of those boxes I've checked off!!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Eventually the American Airlines rep takes me off hold. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She adjusts my flight plans without a penalty. My Airbnb host is equally understanding. It reminds me of the kindness I encounter whenever I travel.</div><p>Today, there will be no <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/01/small-walk-big-view.html" target="_blank">morning miles</a>. I'll conserve my limited "foot time" for basic activities at home.</p><p>I hobble around the kitchen like a robot crossed with a baby deer. </p><p>I brew a pot of coffee my friend Priti brought back from India.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKwAm6fFccpQy4FFpq3SREqlGAw4C_6N7h--rmt_0UK-dsdvL85Z7OvJnlV4Mpq9lY-pLaPI3Y5M4qwwK6vd-0lQsO67ZyW2oKmUVnd15TjKDRnBGykMHG6Mnc2gTwFUqhiIz1yExtcfq-J-1xNRdoa-voeCTM2-sNEi76S02c7t1Ninbvy7_dDnstOP0/s4032/Resting%20Foot.4.jpg" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="A bag of "Tulum" coffee from India." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKwAm6fFccpQy4FFpq3SREqlGAw4C_6N7h--rmt_0UK-dsdvL85Z7OvJnlV4Mpq9lY-pLaPI3Y5M4qwwK6vd-0lQsO67ZyW2oKmUVnd15TjKDRnBGykMHG6Mnc2gTwFUqhiIz1yExtcfq-J-1xNRdoa-voeCTM2-sNEi76S02c7t1Ninbvy7_dDnstOP0/w240-h320/Resting%20Foot.4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I open up biscuits and jam from our <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/07/lost-in-paris.html" target="_blank">neighborhood in Paris</a>.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9VW6yw3h9lAv79RSkk-N39JW2XL2q64bZ8JV2SRoFwoJTRtRO74wTfYkOujKQpTw6jtF30_Os6aK0UfbT9SHC3Av3AokLjUw4-jRgOfHRvAg19v5H16b9UCIMuIvH9DBwbml8uLySFs9UZ3D1Xur9UQnY3Q9-_PU-Y5jZksNHIZJnyGSLFlWPZa8xQNw/s4032/Resting%20Foot.3.jpg" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Two tiny containers of jam next to a box of biscuits that says "Bio" (organic), from Paris." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9VW6yw3h9lAv79RSkk-N39JW2XL2q64bZ8JV2SRoFwoJTRtRO74wTfYkOujKQpTw6jtF30_Os6aK0UfbT9SHC3Av3AokLjUw4-jRgOfHRvAg19v5H16b9UCIMuIvH9DBwbml8uLySFs9UZ3D1Xur9UQnY3Q9-_PU-Y5jZksNHIZJnyGSLFlWPZa8xQNw/w320-h240/Resting%20Foot.3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I spoon out granola from my favorite <a href="https://oldcitycoffee.com/" target="_blank">local coffee shop</a>.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MRH3sx6Z8rzwx64JEkdJbitvdq_bRkSglUe_hPQ5wj2nxQq1UkMdbe2rVKpEhMjJHU8qpQu9pj6hUbqOcuhAObimIoOhPKTRP47cRpWOOnaQusC7VAfTDVSCW_1xjw2OOfJ8vfLAPr_luCJXUtH_VyHXuEGj-JqIBO3UDbjLSoq6AeYCgtSy4wR8Ez8/s4032/Resting%20Foot.2.jpg" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="A brown bag of granola from Old City Coffee." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MRH3sx6Z8rzwx64JEkdJbitvdq_bRkSglUe_hPQ5wj2nxQq1UkMdbe2rVKpEhMjJHU8qpQu9pj6hUbqOcuhAObimIoOhPKTRP47cRpWOOnaQusC7VAfTDVSCW_1xjw2OOfJ8vfLAPr_luCJXUtH_VyHXuEGj-JqIBO3UDbjLSoq6AeYCgtSy4wR8Ez8/w240-h320/Resting%20Foot.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Then I gather up everything and limp out to the balcony,</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFcSXxBTX0VW7z2_x_vuA1svv5hc_ZLBLeGKhGWthxy-OGEwBkrZk74YrZehKtsDDlmD0jORYwsvdz7pmXP6v7fxFz7wPsZP2Pb5ICH6or1gv1rIoCRwp49C3jbQmDfSpVveToas2creMdup8pboSQ4OCD4FmSG-0e_dutpetPJCniGgQ-ZNkJ0V84sE/s4032/Resting%20Foot.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A view of my feet resting on a balcony chair - the left prosthetic, the right in a sock with a sneaker sitting next to it." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFcSXxBTX0VW7z2_x_vuA1svv5hc_ZLBLeGKhGWthxy-OGEwBkrZk74YrZehKtsDDlmD0jORYwsvdz7pmXP6v7fxFz7wPsZP2Pb5ICH6or1gv1rIoCRwp49C3jbQmDfSpVveToas2creMdup8pboSQ4OCD4FmSG-0e_dutpetPJCniGgQ-ZNkJ0V84sE/w300-h400/Resting%20Foot.1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">where I gingerly remove my right shoe.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Less than 70 miles ago, I was exploring <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/08/a-toast-to-paris.html" target="_blank">Paris</a> on foot -- not quite easily, but filled with <i>joie de vivre! </i></div><div><br /></div><div>And now... I'm HERE.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's hard to reconcile these two truths. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a disability that's both permanent <i>and</i> variable. It's who I am as a traveler. </div><div><br /></div><div>Slow or fast.</div><div>Near or far.</div><div><br /></div><div>Walking, like health, is the most fragile of privileges.</div><div><br /><div>Of all the places to be grounded at Mile 12,072,</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0v9WGMLGyTtQhe5PZYRgRwLtBR0ZIFt-wGH8WBPznG8qgSrsxDZFL4M8Shc3cvjy_mzOzn4Hc1MHUSTZ-J8RwCJpGCGJn4TbuzHjFpB6AYQucRiYwuptJgilGRroj55yavFQS6tr0AxdaezSrB6p1pPeIO9WJXa-lYv25_PopeZTdRNLfJc0Qwb_5-Y/s4032/Resting%20Foot.6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A view of the sky over Old City Philly from my balcony. It is reflected in the windows of my building." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0v9WGMLGyTtQhe5PZYRgRwLtBR0ZIFt-wGH8WBPznG8qgSrsxDZFL4M8Shc3cvjy_mzOzn4Hc1MHUSTZ-J8RwCJpGCGJn4TbuzHjFpB6AYQucRiYwuptJgilGRroj55yavFQS6tr0AxdaezSrB6p1pPeIO9WJXa-lYv25_PopeZTdRNLfJc0Qwb_5-Y/w240-h320/Resting%20Foot.6.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am extra grateful for this <br />corner of the sky.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fingers (and 5 toes) crossed, there'll be many miles ahead. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm open to ideas.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Where would you walk?<br /><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-86753453883693198082023-08-08T16:17:00.019-04:002023-08-08T21:29:55.560-04:00Perhaps... Paris<p><b>Bonjour from Mile 12,062!</b></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCEMKQ7RtoQj0LsD45JuFKo7-Dfa412TMAouX1Bnr0P_E7doOh1hTTbtW9g2KBcBtZNHY9UdWh8N9rucxoZ_OEyeSJMjYSps3AmEBIGoTi4SeaDbMFCDRD95To-xSpQd2cDIdjHn6O0JQX90qft4UAGVpGzMGMHxTEPuROVEGLPvmnq8PimN-hOenuD4/s3065/IMG_0708.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A café table in Philly - with my red journal, plastic containers of tomato soup and a sandwich, and a silver water bottle." border="0" data-original-height="3065" data-original-width="2485" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCEMKQ7RtoQj0LsD45JuFKo7-Dfa412TMAouX1Bnr0P_E7doOh1hTTbtW9g2KBcBtZNHY9UdWh8N9rucxoZ_OEyeSJMjYSps3AmEBIGoTi4SeaDbMFCDRD95To-xSpQd2cDIdjHn6O0JQX90qft4UAGVpGzMGMHxTEPuROVEGLPvmnq8PimN-hOenuD4/w259-h320/IMG_0708.jpg" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps I'm in Paris...</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Sure, I'm eating out of plastic containers, but I'm using real silverware!</p><p>Plus, the pesto is homemade, and I'm pretty sure the gazpacho is puréed with local tomatoes. </p><p>Normally I'd just grab takeout. But I'm determined to keep up the Paris vibe, which includes taking time out -- to eat, breathe, and write.</p><p>I open my pocket journal, which I found in a bin at <a href="https://www.cestdeuxeuros.com/" target="_blank">Cést Deux Euros,</a> the Parisian equivalent of a dollar store.</p><p>In the spirit of Paris, I start "perhapsing." </p><p><i><a href="https://brevitymag.com/craft-essays/perhapsing-the-use-of-speculation-in-creative-nonfiction/" target="_blank">Perhapsing</a></i> is a technique I learned in my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/08/a-toast-to-paris.html" target="_blank">travel memoir class</a> -- a method of filling in sketchy details and unknowns with our own speculations. It's entirely "legal," as long as I tell you I'm <i>perhapsing</i>. </p><p>So, I am. :)</p><p>It was one of my favorite exercises of the week.</p><p>Picture this: One afternoon in the Jardin du Palais Royal, a blur of pink catches my eye.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4zvizGmJmY3opMWC-SwU8g210F9DBHpMPqviW_NC3jhaDggTjmqrDAt4BaTSM9XCQVz6iVtVwYMVWxX4zvxjtczI8sY2O1KhayBaMx8L0k0Thj99Eqij9wkLAp0n3vAsSV8iQp9J3dZ6nEDYY8Ar0YZPZ7ScNU47LQLD8pICwLbLGIgq-wrj07qTuwY/s4032/IMG_0264.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A young girl in a pink sweat jacket, jumping off a pillar in the Jardin du Palais Royale." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4zvizGmJmY3opMWC-SwU8g210F9DBHpMPqviW_NC3jhaDggTjmqrDAt4BaTSM9XCQVz6iVtVwYMVWxX4zvxjtczI8sY2O1KhayBaMx8L0k0Thj99Eqij9wkLAp0n3vAsSV8iQp9J3dZ6nEDYY8Ar0YZPZ7ScNU47LQLD8pICwLbLGIgq-wrj07qTuwY/w300-h400/IMG_0264.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At first, she's just a dramatic photo from afar!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But then I move in. Park myself on a pillar nearby.</p><p>(Far enough to be discreet, close enough to be within earshot.)</p><p>She and her parents are positioned in the shape of a scalene triangle. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Mom is closer to her, more engaged. <br />Dad sits farther back, on his phone.</div><p>They're speaking in Spanish (I think), so <i>perhapsing</i> is my only option. I observe -- and put the clues together.</p><p><i>"Mommy, watch!"</i></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"One!" Cartwheel. <br /></i><i>"Two!" Cartwheel. <br /></i><i>"Three!" Cartwheel.</i></div><p><i>She cascades across the courtyard. Mom laughs.</i></p><p><i>Dad looks up. Smiles. Goes back to his phone.</i></p><p><i>She scrambles onto a pillar, pink sweatshirt flapping behind. </i></p><p><i>Mom poises her camera.</i></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The girl shoots a peace sign.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Puts her hands on her hips</i><i>.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Strikes a disco move -- Travolta-like -- pointing to the sky.</i><br /></div><p><i>Mom snaps, and snaps, and snaps.</i></p><p><i>Dad looks up. Smiles. Goes back to his phone.</i></p><p><i>Mother and daughter huddle together -- a curtain of long hair -- as Mom flips through the photos.</i></p><p><i>Then the girl skips to her father. Pokes her head between his face and his phone.</i></p><p><i>"Daddy, did you take a photo?"</i></p><p><i>He looks up. Smiles. Pecks her on the cheek.</i></p><p>I scribble in my journal so I won't forget this moment and this place, this <i>perhapsed </i>dialogue, and all the details I've <i>perhapsed</i> about this family.</p><p>It's just an exercise, but it's opened up a world to me.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJ6VA5C1kYcadX6MeL4ZSuKZetokJrTlrDoMjBvJB_lbNm8cNUQHBp5zf0Z2nUoxGO7bQDtQzBGU66fprGUswY8GyAr91r2hslMuSC_OQkc7tSwhTcU5BNJxu-GzCRfTTpphhWKxTJzMeQKqvHp4e3DRKfeIjJzf9eZp0Woe8rMf0sI0a0xTU5rVYlPc/s4032/IMG_0263.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A building and metal bubble-like sculpture in the Jardin du Palais Royale." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJ6VA5C1kYcadX6MeL4ZSuKZetokJrTlrDoMjBvJB_lbNm8cNUQHBp5zf0Z2nUoxGO7bQDtQzBGU66fprGUswY8GyAr91r2hslMuSC_OQkc7tSwhTcU5BNJxu-GzCRfTTpphhWKxTJzMeQKqvHp4e3DRKfeIjJzf9eZp0Woe8rMf0sI0a0xTU5rVYlPc/w320-h240/IMG_0263.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Au revoir, Palais Royal!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>At Mile 12,062, I'm back in Philly -- and a world away.</p><p>The couple next to me is discussing Scandinavian cake, with a plastic bag of peanuts sitting between them on the table. </p><p>It's odd on both counts. </p><p>We're at <a href="https://talulasdaily.com/" target="_blank">Talula's Daily</a>, which serves neither Scandinavian cake nor peanuts.</p><p>I listen in -- and start <i>perhapsing</i>. (<i>Perhaps</i> the man's name is Herb...)</p><p><i>"I'm thinking of a simple dessert, like a Scandinavian cake," his wife says.</i></p><p><i>Herb nods, nudging the bag of peanuts with his finger. </i></p><p><i>"Well, what do you think of that?"</i></p><p><i>He pauses. "I just don't think you have to try so hard."</i></p><p><i>"She's young. She's having health problems."</i></p><p><i>"So?"</i></p><p><i>"So a Scandinavian cake isn't hard. You can just serve it with some light cream or lemon. She used to work at the hospital, you know."</i></p><p><i>Herb touches the knot on the bag. He wants to open it, but now that she's shifted from cake to health problems, he isn't sure. </i></p><p><i>"You mind?" he says.</i></p><p><i>She sighs. "Whatever you want. I'm very agreeable today."</i></p><p>Perhaps they're going to visit their daughter's friend, the one with health problems. Perhaps their own daughter is traveling (perhaps in Paris!), and perhaps they feel guilty about that. Perhaps Herb is missing the Phillies game, and the peanuts are as close as he can get. </p><p>For perhaps a half hour, I am transported from this table in Philly to a graceful café in the center of Paris.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVNRzPDEI5fxV4bTt4TH5meDrwBN1IDvgCzZwhucsSwOEK6oecAwYFrHxUMFOgbU8wHDtlHLYyWWp5B8ew2s7z6h6jnjUmVGtz795D37zm6PGnoI0ciT_QYC9cGhUDYNlgn0aE3e_6qxiqMclQ4SPJQ7YZX_QqUJs_QM6AI3gPbPhv_fOqFp3pH3CIIg/s4032/IMG_0327.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My lovely lunch at the Royal Opera Café - a salad with roasted potatoes, tomatoes, and walnuts, topped with goat cheese crepes. Behind my plate is a red wine bottle filled with water and a glass of apricot juice. Two bicycles are parked by the street beyond the table." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVNRzPDEI5fxV4bTt4TH5meDrwBN1IDvgCzZwhucsSwOEK6oecAwYFrHxUMFOgbU8wHDtlHLYyWWp5B8ew2s7z6h6jnjUmVGtz795D37zm6PGnoI0ciT_QYC9cGhUDYNlgn0aE3e_6qxiqMclQ4SPJQ7YZX_QqUJs_QM6AI3gPbPhv_fOqFp3pH3CIIg/w240-h320/IMG_0327.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a good place to be.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I look up from my journal.</p><p>It's unseasonably cool for Philly, with a mask of clouds and a breeze that feels like rain. </p><p>Perhaps I've brought this weather back from Paris. </p><p>I get up to leave. </p><p>Then, in a unwelcome burst of reality, my leg bumps the chair -- metal on metal -- and my elbow knocks the fork handle, the one that's balanced on the edge of the plastic container. </p><p>And the whole thing -- sandwich and all -- nearly catapults to the ground. </p><p>By some miracle, I catch it.</p><p>I'm not graceful, and this isn't Paris...</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibaKW-VbgF7TnFUTllHYk1jM3MYfTPgj5cSVbnqSb4FnJU5MmQ31AcAZ0YmTEtAJrD9O3V8ncktq_1y9EnRIjaEhHq3RPtV__y-BECm_J_FRLPwnCGt-E1rrncLEFSPNq8bWpf2O_9dahcXiK06q-wmDdxIY1PUomql_pIILKc60br9mzQHPN--5D8Jdo/s3049/IMG_E0269.JPG"><img alt="I'm standing on a concrete pillar in the Jardin du Palais Royale in a black dress and red jacket, with a palatial buiding and the French flag behind me." border="0" data-original-height="3023" data-original-width="3049" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibaKW-VbgF7TnFUTllHYk1jM3MYfTPgj5cSVbnqSb4FnJU5MmQ31AcAZ0YmTEtAJrD9O3V8ncktq_1y9EnRIjaEhHq3RPtV__y-BECm_J_FRLPwnCGt-E1rrncLEFSPNq8bWpf2O_9dahcXiK06q-wmDdxIY1PUomql_pIILKc60br9mzQHPN--5D8Jdo/w320-h317/IMG_E0269.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>Perhaps... I'm still me. :)</p><div style="text-align: left;">Walk on,<br /><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;"><br /></span></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-18144929277979300032023-08-03T19:05:00.012-04:002023-08-03T21:10:57.942-04:00Thank You Jefferson First-Years!<p><b>Mile Marker 12,050:</b></p><div style="text-align: left;">New students.<br />White coats.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYPmyv5aFT-CjAiMCSCk5VKi8rSp4WAgz1BUT62QedHXblrY6hmzBdMVeSdFZnHpQlXqWxh5UHiktlUfJbdBu-n_yVuxSVRkX_ToSjBeqoDM_jSMqnVSt44tv_FDmOX9mgQgyxYe78U4KwVW5U04Rx-jidmJu8QE6OqWJLB6Ep628jwty1t5YJoTzOys/s4032/IMG_1267.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm standing in the center of an auditorium full of medical students in white coats." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYPmyv5aFT-CjAiMCSCk5VKi8rSp4WAgz1BUT62QedHXblrY6hmzBdMVeSdFZnHpQlXqWxh5UHiktlUfJbdBu-n_yVuxSVRkX_ToSjBeqoDM_jSMqnVSt44tv_FDmOX9mgQgyxYe78U4KwVW5U04Rx-jidmJu8QE6OqWJLB6Ep628jwty1t5YJoTzOys/w400-h300/IMG_1267.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much hope and promise in one room!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At Jefferson University, Medical School begins with listening to patient stories. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's hard to express how much this means to me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There's nothing quite like a doctor who listens. (I learned this from my own medical team!)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It eases pain and anxiety. </div><div style="text-align: left;">It builds relationships and trust.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It makes <i>all</i> the difference.</div><p>I've been a "patient speaker" in this class for several <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2013/08/day-3.html" target="_blank">years</a>, yet it always has an impact on me.</p><p>I admire the journey of these "first-year" students. I'm amazed by the questions they ask. I'm awed by their insight, not as doctors (just yet!), but as fellow humans with their own life experience that inspired them to take this path. </p><p>It's a full auditorium today. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEF19RQgdb1ZxKOYZRhgRTi0o0aXbfP1JumYoMqGKKUg2ytbKKs7_5omtx7IsfKhId0VjOmQVYN_R02Bw8xo_BIUoS3M53N4K-p3YYdmTS2yfo7hfAsyYNjTXI7f_hhL6syBC7rrwQJ6-z7niiW72CeXz77kxVupkFJMN8-vlEvlfmN3u7dNTT7Fufwd4/s4032/IMG_0704.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Me being interviewed at a table by a doctor with a white coat." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEF19RQgdb1ZxKOYZRhgRTi0o0aXbfP1JumYoMqGKKUg2ytbKKs7_5omtx7IsfKhId0VjOmQVYN_R02Bw8xo_BIUoS3M53N4K-p3YYdmTS2yfo7hfAsyYNjTXI7f_hhL6syBC7rrwQJ6-z7niiW72CeXz77kxVupkFJMN8-vlEvlfmN3u7dNTT7Fufwd4/w240-h320/IMG_0704.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. McNett interviews me.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>As I look out across that sea of white coats, I imagine my story landing gently -- like a small stone -- and rippling outward, as if the care I received from my own doctors could touch future patients and families.</p><p>It's an honor to share my story with these students.</p><p>Especially because they're <i>listening</i>. </p><p>Thank you for the warm welcome, Class of 2027! </p><p>I know you'll make a difference in the lives of your patients.</p><p>You've already made a difference in mine.</p><div style="text-align: left;">Walk on,<br /><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;"><br /></span></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-83338315726725670152023-08-01T15:45:00.028-04:002023-08-08T21:30:20.679-04:00A Toast to Paris - and My Peloton!<p><b>Mile Marker 12,030:</b></p><p>When my plane lands, my iPhone automatically resets itself to Philadelphia time. </p><p>The next morning, in a haze of jetlag and dreams, I manually reset my Swatch. An hour later, I realize I've moved the clock's hands but accidentally set them on Paris time, again. </p><p>It feels good to be home...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinCrdhfk_8YcrGal5aHnrZP9H711h6tFjUOCxf1_M-kBgOIi9a0CKT8o5M4kHBEMC_EtCcYBCRLuL2KXDtltX8_GuBzYBlpWj-Xtk73K5YWiGb-vqmB5mti7YALvKDGihmprKRJ-o_WJNOMlDHYHBQ6TBx-Umlf8Qg_ARBmRfuEja8N8lbrF775D9N_Wg/s2931/IMG_0680%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me (in the foreground) and my parents and brother, with an American flag in the background." border="0" data-original-height="2630" data-original-width="2931" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinCrdhfk_8YcrGal5aHnrZP9H711h6tFjUOCxf1_M-kBgOIi9a0CKT8o5M4kHBEMC_EtCcYBCRLuL2KXDtltX8_GuBzYBlpWj-Xtk73K5YWiGb-vqmB5mti7YALvKDGihmprKRJ-o_WJNOMlDHYHBQ6TBx-Umlf8Qg_ARBmRfuEja8N8lbrF775D9N_Wg/w320-h287/IMG_0680%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...especially when my family surprises me <br />in the arrival hall of the airport!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But I'm not quite ready to let go of Paris.</p><p>In the next few postcards, I'll be sharing some work from my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/07/allez.html" target="_blank">Travel Memoir class</a>, as I learned to capture Paris on the page.</p><p>On our last day of class, we were assigned to write <i>an ode, eulogy, </i>or<i> toast</i> about our Paris experience, to be shared at a farewell party that evening.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQVDAeIAmTaj6ThAoE5N59sR8jt5PBew6fsSrNXW8axqTnWjfx-n5l5U6Dn8JisnLqujK4If39DvntmtCZU2BafzNwxMv1fiGaJ76LfyunoAfhS7633Y4ZcvzGvYBDNFioH3-GaiZ2Ur4VRelYjhEqxDMseZdf9DWad0bY1PneUvn426Ni3aGAFnqPXc/s1600/e7ec298c-4705-4838-9418-63afaba15bb7.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A group of us at a long restaurant table, glasses raised in a toast." border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQVDAeIAmTaj6ThAoE5N59sR8jt5PBew6fsSrNXW8axqTnWjfx-n5l5U6Dn8JisnLqujK4If39DvntmtCZU2BafzNwxMv1fiGaJ76LfyunoAfhS7633Y4ZcvzGvYBDNFioH3-GaiZ2Ur4VRelYjhEqxDMseZdf9DWad0bY1PneUvn426Ni3aGAFnqPXc/w240-h320/e7ec298c-4705-4838-9418-63afaba15bb7.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks to classmate Joe for this photo!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I chose to do a toast. </p><p>Here it is (lightly edited)...</p><p><i>Bonsoir</i> everyone!</p><p>On my first morning in Paris, I got <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/07/lost-in-paris.html" target="_blank">lost for 3 hours</a> -- just 5 minutes from the door of my apartment. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get oriented or find my way home.</p><p>On my second day in Paris -- which was Day 1 of our class -- I stopped to admire a single red rose petal, which someone had dropped on the top step of the Metro.</p><p>It had been a long, full day with more walking than I'm used to, and I was exhausted. </p><p>While commuters rushed past me up the stairs, one after the other, I paused on every step to rest my legs. </p><p>I felt like that rose petal, left behind in a city that moved too fast. </p><p><i>Would I be able to keep up with the pace of Paris -- and my "able-bodied" classmates? </i></p><p>I knew it wouldn't be easy for me. I'd been preparing for this trip all year.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><p>This included walking 16 blocks to and from work, which, I predicted, would be the distance from my Paris apartment to our classroom building. It was the first time I'd walked to work since my amputation 12 years ago.</p></div><p>My friends joked that I was training for the <i>Tour de France</i>. </p><p>(And they weren't far off!)</p><p>On Days 2 and 3, Paris picked up the pace. </p><p>I nearly got trapped in a turn style at the Pyramides Metro. I wrote about a Spanish family in the <i>Jardin du Palais Royal</i>. I gave up my seat at a sidewalk café for a family of 11 from Boston -- and ended up next to a family of Japanese Youtubers, dramatically unboxing a cheesecake.</p><p>Along the way, I settled into our classroom space, aptly called a "Cocoon."</p><p>There, I was swept up by the momentum of all of YOU -- my classmates -- travelers, writers, and now friends. Turns out, I didn't have to keep pace on my own.</p><p>You became my peloton.</p><p>By Day 4, I finally had the energy to join everyone for an evening out. </p><p>As [new friend] Kim and I walked through the Parisian drizzle to the Metro together, I spied -- not just one petal -- but a whole <i>bouquet</i> of roses, scattered along the wet pavement.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9eVH0LKszqYKmxtRjULisq8chfMi7Iox_DCio731varfktnsz1qgFQiMy57eGQ9fsRqul7MEkiI0t9uraWyQJ7XSj__mgqhOAXOJIKfptGKSgywg-03nqxiw5qiv-H_9-RsH-4kGGytre_kj4PsjTebgC_GpO0r32HaLJopygLryX4AbukplOBXLvF8/s4032/IMG_0346.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A smattering of rose petals and stems on the wet sidewalk of Paris." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9eVH0LKszqYKmxtRjULisq8chfMi7Iox_DCio731varfktnsz1qgFQiMy57eGQ9fsRqul7MEkiI0t9uraWyQJ7XSj__mgqhOAXOJIKfptGKSgywg-03nqxiw5qiv-H_9-RsH-4kGGytre_kj4PsjTebgC_GpO0r32HaLJopygLryX4AbukplOBXLvF8/w240-h320/IMG_0346.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This time, I wasn't the only one<br />who stopped to admire it!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Tonight, on our last night together, this is a toast to MOVING ON.</p><p>Not toward a finish line or to writing "<i>the end" </i>-- but to new beginnings, new travels, and new friends.</p><p>To moving forward in whatever directions we choose, with creativity and companionship...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKfPEuMY_sNFSsNosRQCCoshatXq4pHJKnHCkQQgRxFXjHAgpIanBBS2cHiBqnrCz1Q6PhkrsAI0TJt18swtB-GVVzgTjkMV8EwSeSxS3q5CVmHkIpLpnRR4_KUctRNPoRDdm63iGVcnv0wtweFs3CNUnULpfI80wpxtb_1oqFs3f7n446RrdAeNWuzfY/s1600/Class%20Pic%20-%20Last%20Day.%207.28.23.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A photo of our writing class, standing shoulder to shoulder, arms around each other, in a bright classroom space with large windows." border="0" data-original-height="905" data-original-width="1600" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKfPEuMY_sNFSsNosRQCCoshatXq4pHJKnHCkQQgRxFXjHAgpIanBBS2cHiBqnrCz1Q6PhkrsAI0TJt18swtB-GVVzgTjkMV8EwSeSxS3q5CVmHkIpLpnRR4_KUctRNPoRDdm63iGVcnv0wtweFs3CNUnULpfI80wpxtb_1oqFs3f7n446RrdAeNWuzfY/w320-h181/Class%20Pic%20-%20Last%20Day.%207.28.23.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...TOGETHER.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><i>À bientôt, Paris.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Je t'aime!</i></div><div><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. <i>Merci beaucoup</i> to our leaders <a href="https://rolfpotts.com/" target="_blank">Rolf</a>, Diane, & Kiki -- and my peloton -- for a <i>Tour de France</i> I'll never forget!</div><div><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-68119086155426744602023-07-23T09:02:00.012-04:002023-07-28T05:37:35.126-04:00Lost (and Found) in Paris<p><b>Bonjour from Mile Marker 12,000... and then some!</b></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUh0DMJmXcMOciSgJovAC6L0sXHPA_-5d3Yz41r_cbIGp16htUv7J7i5kvsrPhMqIn39koLRcmdg5_qb__E8ER_LPmK64wG2kxquXVTbx_aCWZYay-QnHlGNyfXLAqKjXJcTbTZ5Vgiw5GRGQIz_w5hzuSUSvfXD2vbXeu13ZzMs_AFLIMNFynfEi4ZR8/s4032/IMG_0191.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUh0DMJmXcMOciSgJovAC6L0sXHPA_-5d3Yz41r_cbIGp16htUv7J7i5kvsrPhMqIn39koLRcmdg5_qb__E8ER_LPmK64wG2kxquXVTbx_aCWZYay-QnHlGNyfXLAqKjXJcTbTZ5Vgiw5GRGQIz_w5hzuSUSvfXD2vbXeu13ZzMs_AFLIMNFynfEi4ZR8/s320/IMG_0191.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I had this vision of my first "<a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/01/small-walk-big-view.html" target="_blank">morning mile</a>" here.</p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">A leisurely stroll in the sunshine.</div><div style="text-align: left;">A stop at the neighborhood boulangerie.<br /><i>Un café, s'il vous plait.</i></div><p>I didn't picture that I'd wake up late, or get caught in a drizzle, or become lost in a web of cobblestone alleys whose names don't show up on my phone.</p><p>The <i>Marais</i>, I'm discovering, is a bit like my Old City home -- with its narrow passages and hip cafés -- but complicated by French accents, unfamiliar streets, and jet lag!</p><p>No worries at first. </p><div style="text-align: left;">I just wander. Window shop. Walk whichever way I want.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I buy un <i>croissant aux amandes.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then that first <i>café au lait</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlSusa0pGo2BObVR9sBaABc-GxpCa74auIn-Dnpx6NpY0YfxqNR2jiz4EfMKjj4jfm-1o0sspfThhO9MA6pevEPTaa745aA_8rKhppuzXyvWeKD9fbaYLwSsCA5hvCN9JI8PW4gCcEFId9yJ_OWE_5k3UdZaOcBGAqGMyevTVW4Y1kfe1djbnLyugKPU/s4032/IMG_0185.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlSusa0pGo2BObVR9sBaABc-GxpCa74auIn-Dnpx6NpY0YfxqNR2jiz4EfMKjj4jfm-1o0sspfThhO9MA6pevEPTaa745aA_8rKhppuzXyvWeKD9fbaYLwSsCA5hvCN9JI8PW4gCcEFId9yJ_OWE_5k3UdZaOcBGAqGMyevTVW4Y1kfe1djbnLyugKPU/s320/IMG_0185.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C'est très joli!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">Then I walk some more. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fRCfQrCjRYv_aV1EhGZD-zkg8LxagY2O7bqDJxf6eutJ1SJiURD2JFnV3t2qaAKCchftq2hohZ0e5GJePWWS3QKZ1p_JRD6UUSMKb3ILaiftW3D0wppQnDP-Y7ZDfQ7t9NKeVfwTcsKxrmxwjJQGeKbgzXSdpizz8uL426b9tOnU2yCiwP-FlVqYOR0/s4032/IMG_0187.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fRCfQrCjRYv_aV1EhGZD-zkg8LxagY2O7bqDJxf6eutJ1SJiURD2JFnV3t2qaAKCchftq2hohZ0e5GJePWWS3QKZ1p_JRD6UUSMKb3ILaiftW3D0wppQnDP-Y7ZDfQ7t9NKeVfwTcsKxrmxwjJQGeKbgzXSdpizz8uL426b9tOnU2yCiwP-FlVqYOR0/s320/IMG_0187.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just taking in the views!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">But when I'm ready to turn back... well, I'm not sure which way to turn.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've never had a great sense of direction, but still this surprises me. I've been studying my Paris map for months. And I was only setting out for a short walk.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYIn8LXw0TCG-pPHFt9Asmr73OgvA5EWb61_bRltfyLXVtvMxHGQKEYI57kHyCZcG1rm5ibLKjmqTEeUO7411o0mLG2OuSRSW6H9GEktghqiwPYm2M_zFo3xRwXRnZeULE-5lwOsFTLWzBUr9ymUCsoq9n8IEmVEoa0A-hdlKxJicaRFGgbZJVpkVpYM/s4032/IMG_0176.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYIn8LXw0TCG-pPHFt9Asmr73OgvA5EWb61_bRltfyLXVtvMxHGQKEYI57kHyCZcG1rm5ibLKjmqTEeUO7411o0mLG2OuSRSW6H9GEktghqiwPYm2M_zFo3xRwXRnZeULE-5lwOsFTLWzBUr9ymUCsoq9n8IEmVEoa0A-hdlKxJicaRFGgbZJVpkVpYM/s320/IMG_0176.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Just steps past the grocery store we found yesterday!)</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Because of the slant of the sidewalk, I usually keep my prosthesis on the curb side -- which means I turn right more often than left -- which <i>should </i>help in this case -- but somehow doesn't. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After a while, I give up and check the map on my phone. My blue dot is a "5 min walk" from the red dot of our apartment. Not bad...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I walk a bit more. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Still "5 min."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I get it down to "3 min" -- but no shorter.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So close and yet so far.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Travel writer <a href="https://rolfpotts.com/" target="_blank">Rolf Potts</a> (who I'll meet tonight at our pre-<u><a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/07/allez.html" target="_blank">class</a></u> picnic!) introduced me to the word <i><a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/03/walk-until-your-day-becomes-interesting.html" target="_blank">flâneur</a></i>. It's the French word for someone who strolls on foot without a real destination in mind. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That's me, this morning. Walking for the sake of walking. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbQliMLYSI6gn2XkEdSugAZH-EaHgwzxVkv6p3gLumUmwFlWLNraCUe91wuAKUGHI95NoL20DYFosZskb93ZktSP2o_EUCL8Bm2HhmBlx8NU1-8jtl81hu7u8z7fM2FIW4maHwZGUQ-L7O06OD3YOLjoUnF3sRFuubnjue0-UsBI_IsVV5M_FhvMODqk/s4032/IMG_0179.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbQliMLYSI6gn2XkEdSugAZH-EaHgwzxVkv6p3gLumUmwFlWLNraCUe91wuAKUGHI95NoL20DYFosZskb93ZktSP2o_EUCL8Bm2HhmBlx8NU1-8jtl81hu7u8z7fM2FIW4maHwZGUQ-L7O06OD3YOLjoUnF3sRFuubnjue0-UsBI_IsVV5M_FhvMODqk/s320/IMG_0179.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking in my surroundings without a schedule or plan.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It's the way I love to walk. I do it a lot -- even at home.</p><p>But for an amputee, walking isn't simple. </p><p>"Leg time" is limited and, in the back of my mind, I know I need to conserve it for the picnic tonight. Also, my microprocessor knee shouldn't really get soaked in the rain. </p><p>As much as I want to turn down the next street just to see where it takes me, I have a compelling -- and physical -- need to find my way home.</p><p>After a mile or so of unintended <i>flânerie</i>, my phone tings with a text from Mona, my traveling companion and apartment-mate.</p><p>She's at our apartment, leaving to head out for lunch. :)</p><p>A few seconds later we cross paths -- at the courtyard to our apartment building.</p><p><i>Je suis trouvé!</i></p><p>Turns out, I wasn't really lost at all. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWYWm1_A1mM1Bqxbr-Cnx62LBXsIExvJSTFzVoXD3i6i89wJ2_CbNtiCuz4iyQMq2QK_SiivfmrTJqK-YMTyehugH9NXzupF96nEp-FmlPUMKC83gOBPdXb9FsaaVmxRtlrlVCKa5JjuGFky332uWkF5tuIhr5dooWEOXHV16vYS4mwrQWQt1w-wLyig/s4032/IMG_0170.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWYWm1_A1mM1Bqxbr-Cnx62LBXsIExvJSTFzVoXD3i6i89wJ2_CbNtiCuz4iyQMq2QK_SiivfmrTJqK-YMTyehugH9NXzupF96nEp-FmlPUMKC83gOBPdXb9FsaaVmxRtlrlVCKa5JjuGFky332uWkF5tuIhr5dooWEOXHV16vYS4mwrQWQt1w-wLyig/s320/IMG_0170.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bienvenue à Paris!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Bonne journée!<br /><i><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></i></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-68199515937591079392023-07-12T10:07:00.009-04:002023-07-20T12:59:48.826-04:00Allez!<p>Twelve years ago this week, I wrote a little post called <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/go.html" target="_blank">Go</a>!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHN5y4N38SFwvYKf0vTEC856IMs9oUdtE6nKxCyaib5JJ6g4f4nUWdlJpEChBRxr4MUuxLey7N9bvcGz3U9z0ukc0uJlvkFOei-x1ttpziTjieod984BqKmuSY1NzgTXjhMYP9L8zT4ir5qBuDdnp-tPJ1AhheBik-pB_fmUsvYOGj88ri2hzO1ZBOXJM/s2816/DSCN8760.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="My brother Mark and me, and his dog Jack, standing on Kelly Drive on my very first mile on July 9, 2011." border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="2112" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHN5y4N38SFwvYKf0vTEC856IMs9oUdtE6nKxCyaib5JJ6g4f4nUWdlJpEChBRxr4MUuxLey7N9bvcGz3U9z0ukc0uJlvkFOei-x1ttpziTjieod984BqKmuSY1NzgTXjhMYP9L8zT4ir5qBuDdnp-tPJ1AhheBik-pB_fmUsvYOGj88ri2hzO1ZBOXJM/w240-h320/DSCN8760.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 9, 2011<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>See that look on my face? </p><p>That cautious smile of joy and relief. After 8 long months of recovery and rebuilding, I had finally reached the start of a new journey.</p><p>I thought those <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/go.html" target="_blank">first steps</a> would propel me full speed ahead. I thought I already had the hang of it.</p><p>Little did I know, we don't face the starting line just once. </p><p>We step up to it day after day after day... (x 12 years and counting!)</p><p>Now, as I pass <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/go.html" target="_blank">Go</a> for the dozenth time, I'm preparing for yet another change in direction. </p><p>My friends joke that I'm in training for the <i>Tour de France</i>. </p><p>And they're not far off.</p><p>Soon, I'll be embarking on a travel writing course -- in PARIS!</p><p>(Remember author <a href="https://rolfpotts.com/" target="_blank">Rolf Potts</a> who inspired <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/03/walk-until-your-day-becomes-interesting.html" target="_blank">Mile 9,393?</a> He's teaching it!) </p><p>It's true. I <i>have </i>been training for this. </p><div>Walking longer and farther. </div><div>Adjusting my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/05/whats-in-new-socket.html" target="_blank">prosthetic socket</a>.</div><div>Doing PT exercises to aid my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2022/08/love-is-blind-and-so-is-my-digestive.html" target="_blank">digestion</a>.</div><div><a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2018/05/sweat-test-30.html" target="_blank">Sweat-testing</a> my leg.</div><p>This whole year, I've been working to get my body (and hardware) in shape to keep up with "able-bodied" classmates while trekking around Paris in the summer heat.</p><p>Of course, as I near the finish line, plans unravel.</p><div style="text-align: left;">My body reacts terribly to a new medication. My prosthesis clicks and beeps in all the wrong places. Even my household appliances are on the fritz...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div>Help! I need a sign. (Or maybe fewer signs!)</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Enter the <i>Tour de France</i>.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYnEg6DBR6ssfRtMi_SPZjttss2r15CdyoAxFf6pLAl4unE2vVcvTfiMkoGeIFlLgroRK4WrJM00DsY5EkDJnzcpceYzHhpF_bnVe9z2NNlP07EfJ-WPhy9TiClQWN39j1ATRnOuYFnCvXIwLA_2jHtLmTx4tlUQbb06cqx7pwhsfyHGOhq_JskRgCME/s3088/Tour%20de%20France%20fan.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me in front of my small TV, wearing a Tour de France shirt." border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYnEg6DBR6ssfRtMi_SPZjttss2r15CdyoAxFf6pLAl4unE2vVcvTfiMkoGeIFlLgroRK4WrJM00DsY5EkDJnzcpceYzHhpF_bnVe9z2NNlP07EfJ-WPhy9TiClQWN39j1ATRnOuYFnCvXIwLA_2jHtLmTx4tlUQbb06cqx7pwhsfyHGOhq_JskRgCME/w240-h320/Tour%20de%20France%20fan.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The real one!)</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm just a spectator, but I take its lessons to heart.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">These riders are the best of the best. They've dreamed and trained and, in many cases, crawled their way back from life-threatening injuries to qualify for this epic race -- 21 stages in 23 days -- the most challenging event in professional cycling. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>I see their steepest climbs and sharpest descents. I cringe when they crash. I watch with wonder as they get back on their bikes.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There are 22 teams. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Which means 22+ strategies. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Which means their plans unravel too, </div><div style="text-align: left;">Often as they near the finish line. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">They just pedal harder.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Each stage ends in utter exhaustion. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And then -- in the blazing sun of the next day -- the riders take their places at another starting line ALL OVER AGAIN.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">They know nothing of me -- with my little Peacock subscription and my even smaller TV screen. I'm just another fan watching from afar, a former biker, shouting <i>Allez! </i>from my couch in Philly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>And yet, I feel connected. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's their RESILIENCE that resonates most.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm amazed how they step up to that start line and embrace a new "stage" -- day after day after day.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's been 12 years, and I'm approaching 12,000 MILES on a prosthetic leg. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhBIHLqJal6f7hh2YdPKRD26a8TJ717c4M_YZgM9C8X1xLzD0C3W1-rLthMA1ejB_qO1hN-s1zdwW6v-rGOI3JS3FQZNbfhZ29Qj3yzYI1icBx14dMNbP82qvZbbHIbbR7hTUWNj5YFN5qO2hWmJJLVFNc61vlen54rZitYgz-JrASvFQg7KxElT015M/s4032/IMG_7844%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A spread of France books and maps on my coffee table, including a map of the Tour de France route." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhBIHLqJal6f7hh2YdPKRD26a8TJ717c4M_YZgM9C8X1xLzD0C3W1-rLthMA1ejB_qO1hN-s1zdwW6v-rGOI3JS3FQZNbfhZ29Qj3yzYI1icBx14dMNbP82qvZbbHIbbR7hTUWNj5YFN5qO2hWmJJLVFNc61vlen54rZitYgz-JrASvFQg7KxElT015M/w320-h240/IMG_7844%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journey willing, <i>that</i> start line will be Paris!</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><p>And if I'm lucky, I'll watch those riders from the sidelines -- as they sprint toward the finish of their final stage -- and I'll be shouting <i>Allez!</i> in person.</p><p>I'll send you a postcard. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Allez!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ny-6IvataC9oWco5WbXu9o-7gFE33FbSyYwHpS_7wuuT5CGrsi2ygNj7O61kdbIpC-KDtK_fRLCvdHETuWzpsE32672Lfottl45jkS1Xb8D8V8tHImMbJNGkx3AwwndQ3sBYwTkL_po88prEWoRwR0yNAHI2OufjBVkh-uNpt7Vr4BDwPkGXyFLjKfU/s4032/IMG_7857.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My feet on the sidewalk with a spraypaint of the words "Take Risks."" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ny-6IvataC9oWco5WbXu9o-7gFE33FbSyYwHpS_7wuuT5CGrsi2ygNj7O61kdbIpC-KDtK_fRLCvdHETuWzpsE32672Lfottl45jkS1Xb8D8V8tHImMbJNGkx3AwwndQ3sBYwTkL_po88prEWoRwR0yNAHI2OufjBVkh-uNpt7Vr4BDwPkGXyFLjKfU/w240-h320/IMG_7857.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">P.S. I found a sign :)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-85973232124954373332023-06-17T16:12:00.010-04:002023-06-18T11:16:47.993-04:00Stand Here<p>Has it really been just 2 weeks since my last postcard?</p><p>I've been wanting to write, but there are times when direction is difficult to decipher. So I'm returning to a lesson I learned <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/new-frontiers.html" target="_blank">way, way back</a> in this journey:</p><p>When life feels too big, it helps to take small steps.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7xYxHdtzEmUJD0MgGTnR9TiXcK9lX1VebhKe-ESt2xBlgJ9TLDRXMaKeZLBeHJFNkmSr5NiYverP6ydo4G-cyRISaezsXpoOU2L6fbfM57036Tq-bBNK7i5bxCTLaSw_YmJsnRNDG96yUAtIIg0yP1-ZY5z_fyIHrBE4oCFnxFy7qCUr8UeWJ1w_/s1600/Bacon%20Uncle%20Steve%20and%20Dad.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Standing in front of Ruby Tuesdays: my uncle Steve, me, and my dad. I'm wearing my very first prosthetic leg." border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7xYxHdtzEmUJD0MgGTnR9TiXcK9lX1VebhKe-ESt2xBlgJ9TLDRXMaKeZLBeHJFNkmSr5NiYverP6ydo4G-cyRISaezsXpoOU2L6fbfM57036Tq-bBNK7i5bxCTLaSw_YmJsnRNDG96yUAtIIg0yP1-ZY5z_fyIHrBE4oCFnxFy7qCUr8UeWJ1w_/w320-h240/Bacon%20Uncle%20Steve%20and%20Dad.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Throwback to <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/new-frontiers.html" target="_blank">Mile 39</a> :)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Back then, small steps meant <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/back-to-bacon.html" target="_blank">bacon</a> -- and <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/08/new-frontiers.html" target="_blank">Ruby Tuesdays</a> -- with my best pit crew.</p><p>(I'd still be up for that, of course!) </p><p>But nowadays, it usually means taking time out for short, meandering walks that keep me on solid ground.</p><div style="text-align: left;">It doesn't matter how far I wander. <br />It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with friends. <br />It doesn't matter if I take photos or not. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLRZTCuxK7N0kEGevwmMj77KgvXDE3WmF-zl7A56lB5anQgjhGpgTpONGQ2cf9SIJ8_6SoscdwCQjNqp5FLJeS_PbulnTc3mlzpN014J80o0-0OZ87YVQ-y4nV7H36VUM63SREcOSkSZ135GR6jXZ89ed4bmFCVktmMaIWj8l57-R4t8rYfUjfTD9c/s2016/IMG_7650.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The bark of a tree and a rosebush in the foreground against a background of a yellow wall on which is cast an artistic shadow from leaves somewhere else." border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLRZTCuxK7N0kEGevwmMj77KgvXDE3WmF-zl7A56lB5anQgjhGpgTpONGQ2cf9SIJ8_6SoscdwCQjNqp5FLJeS_PbulnTc3mlzpN014J80o0-0OZ87YVQ-y4nV7H36VUM63SREcOSkSZ135GR6jXZ89ed4bmFCVktmMaIWj8l57-R4t8rYfUjfTD9c/w240-h320/IMG_7650.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's always AWE to be found.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The smallest steps bring more clarity than any amount of thinking at home.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSS7e6WZnY4eBb3QVtbms5EEza1iOj0t2m3c66jPWdxmkf2TJqbZAvv_NB4jRKYObfs6A_OVcklewUY0YRyQ8Ja6wm0KLrvwI-m4BkBdnIxxW2ZzElf3ZorblWv9xL7TrfGycqOGVz-rQYeqcrJXP_NqXtilHnLclLGwbcs877_mc-aFk97FIRVUtF/s2016/IMG_7640.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Tall stems of small purple flowers against a green field and a blue sky filled with clouds." border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSS7e6WZnY4eBb3QVtbms5EEza1iOj0t2m3c66jPWdxmkf2TJqbZAvv_NB4jRKYObfs6A_OVcklewUY0YRyQ8Ja6wm0KLrvwI-m4BkBdnIxxW2ZzElf3ZorblWv9xL7TrfGycqOGVz-rQYeqcrJXP_NqXtilHnLclLGwbcs877_mc-aFk97FIRVUtF/w240-h320/IMG_7640.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colors bring peace.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcdXsqAcon0ofMIP-hp3T8knv7kULh23hLw_goZU3uIPCD9oGFpB9w98M-hq1q826fYKe2d5LWDQomRbpPKWymyJG-6wDM9JJ2jjdQPrm1Dh9r6YM8pzhsvOIjrrG-Cn3QZxbNYBZkqj2c25wmZb6OH1aCCqy73uT-Qd6ttmcdFl-BOouL6aulKPg/s4032/Morning%20sun.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A low morning sun, casting shadows down a city sidewalk. There's a tree on the left and a metal garage door closed on the right." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcdXsqAcon0ofMIP-hp3T8knv7kULh23hLw_goZU3uIPCD9oGFpB9w98M-hq1q826fYKe2d5LWDQomRbpPKWymyJG-6wDM9JJ2jjdQPrm1Dh9r6YM8pzhsvOIjrrG-Cn3QZxbNYBZkqj2c25wmZb6OH1aCCqy73uT-Qd6ttmcdFl-BOouL6aulKPg/w240-h320/Morning%20sun.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise brings renewal.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>And "found" signs bring an unexpected spark of HOPE.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5aB5TX9tJCbOvBwUUGN55ZVRfdTVsy9yq_B6dSkY-JxR_RyTi9WK4y12BKWk_CamNuUlZKy2JyuNG7aRZ1E8JRBa3HwUxYgK34lg-GE5A11uQ343kreaYLCgYj2a7BZ70WAMO0A7xYupuLoVLXoRTSSn5TnVaRRkP1mlrNIeQphwah3SUH9h2cKh/s2016/IMG_7641.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A brick wall on which sits a painted, heart shaped stone which says, "Yes Stones. Blue Butterfly on FB."" border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5aB5TX9tJCbOvBwUUGN55ZVRfdTVsy9yq_B6dSkY-JxR_RyTi9WK4y12BKWk_CamNuUlZKy2JyuNG7aRZ1E8JRBa3HwUxYgK34lg-GE5A11uQ343kreaYLCgYj2a7BZ70WAMO0A7xYupuLoVLXoRTSSn5TnVaRRkP1mlrNIeQphwah3SUH9h2cKh/w240-h320/IMG_7641.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Even if I don't quite know what they mean!)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Walking reminds me how we're all connected, like the wildfire sky that drifted into Philly from Canada. Most of the time, connection brings comfort.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8zmmUcrLackwaSGpwo1aXgvYyqBa0FcIKDNIV37QdKNG9S7HxBJeGKUVYE9_0u9sP9nE9m2ep3uxLr2U4MIjWvsauX7rGtS8fMtC2vsa7VLLp6_4cz54qgTIbF0ZR1xCcDXPHWIf9zsqJtN52Kpf-wzCJfkGSkNNCghMRgxA2_H52YDRqCITxK1-/s4032/Smoke.7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The view westward up Market Street under a smoky, pink sky. The sun is an orange pink sphere at the top right, above a row of green trees." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8zmmUcrLackwaSGpwo1aXgvYyqBa0FcIKDNIV37QdKNG9S7HxBJeGKUVYE9_0u9sP9nE9m2ep3uxLr2U4MIjWvsauX7rGtS8fMtC2vsa7VLLp6_4cz54qgTIbF0ZR1xCcDXPHWIf9zsqJtN52Kpf-wzCJfkGSkNNCghMRgxA2_H52YDRqCITxK1-/w240-h320/Smoke.7.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, aside from implications<br />for climate change.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes on a walk, I just STOP.</div><div>Stand here. </div><div>Feel the space of a small, single moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>That gentle shift of focus from <i>overwhelment</i>... </div><div>(Is that a word?) </div><div><br /></div><div>...to <i>gratitude</i>. </div><div>(I know that is!)</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When life feels too big, where do you stand?</div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh365o1_KOtbt0gdmG_RsXKuMR8Jk2UJV97WQv2JWYHl5UVNAPVJjmDUE2Q8g5Yo-CP3YpIKV_qQkYArO4cFBVPNkF4y1pO1oXP5nmjprxoHhy4rHBFHmv9rzVK9ULU6IOJUIMDGUcGFxne5fK_xqatAZIlndwnwsfvHzYKx071OAKWInacapDICDXR/s1508/IMG_7620.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="My legs from the knees down in two chalk drawn footprints. Behind me it's written in chalk: Stand Here." border="0" data-original-height="1508" data-original-width="1504" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh365o1_KOtbt0gdmG_RsXKuMR8Jk2UJV97WQv2JWYHl5UVNAPVJjmDUE2Q8g5Yo-CP3YpIKV_qQkYArO4cFBVPNkF4y1pO1oXP5nmjprxoHhy4rHBFHmv9rzVK9ULU6IOJUIMDGUcGFxne5fK_xqatAZIlndwnwsfvHzYKx071OAKWInacapDICDXR/w319-h320/IMG_7620.jpg" width="319" /></a></p><p>I'll be right here.</p><div style="text-align: left;">Walk on,<br /><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>(Chalk art found in Washington Square with my walking buddy, JJ.)</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-13411123565064623982023-05-31T10:14:00.012-04:002023-06-01T13:44:11.181-04:00Stop the Bleed<p>May is National Trauma Survivors Month -- and guess what...</p><p>You can learn to help someone survive a traumatic injury like mine.</p><p>(Yes, really!)</p><p>It's called <a href="https://stopthebleedproject.org/" target="_blank">Stop the Bleed</a>.</p><p>Now I know what you're thinking. I, too, sat through middle school health class in the 1980's.</p><div style="text-align: left;">Back then, tourniquets were a big NO.<br />And dealing with blood?? <br />That was an even bigger NO.</div><p>But you should know (see what I did there?) these important life-saving measures aren't NOs anymore.</p><p>First aid and trauma care have evolved since then. </p><p>I have it from a good source -- actually the <u>best</u> source -- my Jefferson Trauma Team. </p><p>It's okay to help in an emergency. </p><p>In fact, it's RECOMMENDED.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNH21VZYdAe-p4lZzn1ZOOLHOPTs_wEbx5YWkfbTP3FtT4sDdxKn7qVuUY9i12S70QZ00b9IPEO0yuiJ79OZS_CBOvSehIDT-MvXwuyp4ZE2u4XSWt_WKRnbNJWu0BsHq4kSpiVf5TIYSzcsWYVMawLfNfXTkzAnxbMeW2vQCFpTefw0y16z7FG3N/s3104/IMG_7459.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="I am putting a tourniquet on Nurse Nora's arm in front of our Stop the Bleed table." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3104" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNH21VZYdAe-p4lZzn1ZOOLHOPTs_wEbx5YWkfbTP3FtT4sDdxKn7qVuUY9i12S70QZ00b9IPEO0yuiJ79OZS_CBOvSehIDT-MvXwuyp4ZE2u4XSWt_WKRnbNJWu0BsHq4kSpiVf5TIYSzcsWYVMawLfNfXTkzAnxbMeW2vQCFpTefw0y16z7FG3N/w320-h312/IMG_7459.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And EVERYONE should know how!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://stopthebleedproject.org/" target="_blank">Stop the Bleed</a> is a nationwide campaign to teach ordinary bystanders how to help someone who's bleeding out. <div><br /></div><div>Maybe you're out hiking or rock climbing. </div><div>Maybe you're walking through the city. </div><div>Maybe you're waiting at a bus stop.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0qN9bYi2yc1W78fX5qDSNXmHZr8ybRrpwe4iDArBhqdA7BCIYeRgfgvyL5Kj29SKGRC95FPqmxK5tFFGsa8H1np7i_RldXCrXdf9FsUUANctzdFBHtX0CB-mt1zX0IhpoZcLGnqT7zEGGMWdzCEIy9e0fVHFQTb3RR9DH8I_vGXC45bx13fXnLIa/s4032/IMG_7439.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Our Stop the Bleed training table, containing a first aid kit, a tourniquet, and a t-shirt that says "This shirt can save a life."" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0qN9bYi2yc1W78fX5qDSNXmHZr8ybRrpwe4iDArBhqdA7BCIYeRgfgvyL5Kj29SKGRC95FPqmxK5tFFGsa8H1np7i_RldXCrXdf9FsUUANctzdFBHtX0CB-mt1zX0IhpoZcLGnqT7zEGGMWdzCEIy9e0fVHFQTb3RR9DH8I_vGXC45bx13fXnLIa/w320-h240/IMG_7439.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With a little knowledge,<br />YOU can save the life of someone who's injured.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>First -- CALL 911. </b> Make sure YOU are safe.</p><p><b>If the person is bleeding, apply pressure to the wound.</b> Both hands. Shoulders strong. Get down on your knees if you have to.</p><p><b>If the wound is wide and deep, pack it with gauze</b> -- or whatever fabric you might have handy. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwO8Vb_tQ_F0CnVDpkVYHmvuPP42iXd68uv7pXnSLndmeUuIbx7LieHlw4LthrDyQCI0Mz1CACwT7SVGWnBsSkBXwe6xuqt5WW6ohyz_6eUMrC638L0XuQgf3VAwpaOHFmmp46IEAVefDopALXBzeEXERKLBA6HQrbw6Mex6-xjXY5Yf7J6UhgIGPx/s4032/IMG_7441.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Nurse Nora kneeling beside a foam model, in which a red t-shirt is packed into a fake wound." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwO8Vb_tQ_F0CnVDpkVYHmvuPP42iXd68uv7pXnSLndmeUuIbx7LieHlw4LthrDyQCI0Mz1CACwT7SVGWnBsSkBXwe6xuqt5WW6ohyz_6eUMrC638L0XuQgf3VAwpaOHFmmp46IEAVefDopALXBzeEXERKLBA6HQrbw6Mex6-xjXY5Yf7J6UhgIGPx/w240-h320/IMG_7441.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even a t-shirt will work.<br />(Trauma Nurse Nora taught me that!)</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>For arm or leg wounds, a tourniquet might be necessary. </b> <a href="https://www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/STB_Applying_Tourniquet_08-06-2018_0.pdf" target="_blank">Learn to use one</a>. </p><p>If bleeding is forceful or continuous, <a href="https://www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/STB_Applying_Tourniquet_08-06-2018_0.pdf" target="_blank">apply a tourniquet</a> 2-3 inches above the wound or above the nearest joint. (You can even make one from a cloth or belt.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGgg1myaHtVR5N7Ipx2tiSz0AVpi8LNPUzM64VK6RGkCGl9lckBKpCAmGtRf3Xv7qCNjMX8Z-JO8YPa9WrcE_jRTjb71oVKuuuxLLEKVuHOFptR82MzQdDb-TZXD9rs2CiNgyQqASf_pb6FTIsiNvSth9Qc9kTc7C_HBhFS12mdkVtiKsUgy71XJh/s3475/IMG_7453.jpg"><img alt="A volunteer putting a tourniquet on my right leg, as another volunteer looks on." border="0" data-original-height="2606" data-original-width="3475" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGgg1myaHtVR5N7Ipx2tiSz0AVpi8LNPUzM64VK6RGkCGl9lckBKpCAmGtRf3Xv7qCNjMX8Z-JO8YPa9WrcE_jRTjb71oVKuuuxLLEKVuHOFptR82MzQdDb-TZXD9rs2CiNgyQqASf_pb6FTIsiNvSth9Qc9kTc7C_HBhFS12mdkVtiKsUgy71XJh/w320-h240/IMG_7453.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Then, stay with the person and wait for help to arrive.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaBdenVlsemEPikSPrj35Lmy9SRiSyljYn-MkmPXM00RAqsK0z46pWHf_iY2pc8ZnR783I9WVTxmgcGM_GoIRdjmXCDQwALMy-txz_Ff6miSesnCRzXgzmJw2NpWFmnddAT3SbL5C6ekanYX7pfTDSaAV0K97OUyPGc_Ze1EYTQvzhCTB-xYnyoUw/s4032/IMG_7457.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A photo of me helping a volunteer learn to put a tourniquet on his own leg." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaBdenVlsemEPikSPrj35Lmy9SRiSyljYn-MkmPXM00RAqsK0z46pWHf_iY2pc8ZnR783I9WVTxmgcGM_GoIRdjmXCDQwALMy-txz_Ff6miSesnCRzXgzmJw2NpWFmnddAT3SbL5C6ekanYX7pfTDSaAV0K97OUyPGc_Ze1EYTQvzhCTB-xYnyoUw/w320-h240/IMG_7457.jpg" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As as a traumatic injury survivor, I know <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/11/circling-forward.html" target="_blank">what it's like</a> when bystanders <i>don't</i> know what to do. My accident occurred next to a bus stop with many commuters on their way to work. Everyone watched. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">NO ONE stepped off the sidewalk to help.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know what it's like to lie in the street, bleeding and <i>frightened, </i>waiting for an ambulance to arrive. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">In 3-5 minutes, a person can bleed out from a serious wound.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It can take an average of 7-10 minutes for first responders to arrive.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have no way of knowing if my outcome would have been different if a bystander <i>had</i> stepped in to stop the bleed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But perhaps it would have been worth a try.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZt3EqLW5To7g1AlL2748R4N21I21u0_fYrqBb8_1-LaemyAEFPIuwxVDTw5J9730PxYxzP_Bgf3Y3DUzA4P746jexdLZnaQcRzGPf0hHeIFedqua8-Ax7FptzhshTqyosdroyIhhmOhrhapR-jjjc6qN4YaZTI2zo0L4gQ6vpbevdUzpvmIDUStA9/s602/unnamed.jpg"><img alt="A graphic that says "Would you know what to do in case of a traumatic bleeding event?" It also gives the statistics I list in the text above." border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="465" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZt3EqLW5To7g1AlL2748R4N21I21u0_fYrqBb8_1-LaemyAEFPIuwxVDTw5J9730PxYxzP_Bgf3Y3DUzA4P746jexdLZnaQcRzGPf0hHeIFedqua8-Ax7FptzhshTqyosdroyIhhmOhrhapR-jjjc6qN4YaZTI2zo0L4gQ6vpbevdUzpvmIDUStA9/w309-h400/unnamed.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p>We can all learn the basics. Check out <a href="https://stopthebleedproject.org/" target="_blank">Stop the Bleed Project</a> for more information. </p><div style="text-align: left;">You can view a <a href="https://youtu.be/dkb-Ddb8QFA" target="_blank">short video</a> here. <br />Or a <a href="https://youtu.be/XgxGR-sKVoo" target="_blank">longer video</a> here.</div><p>This month, I learned the basics and joined the Jefferson Team to help educate the public. </p><p>It was just my first step into this important cause. More to come...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yea8gt0AibvfTcNTf-nvt2FHzzhuE-BpJx7qnfVneGFYDJmVmQ2I1ELQtNEVDqOX_2wzseN7xxUlKQToST9tL3Ts8r_bmOOl4fENeNiNY65y7YRqcU9xT3YMUzpeQ9fY5cgggzTsPp8PNMTnGsEdQtmdVt6Q7q8TtD4m7ib-TaRTvrjHb1w4TBD3/s4032/IMG_7487.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Nurses and other staff from Jefferson Trauma with me, standing in front of a Stop the Bleed training table at Jefferson train station." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yea8gt0AibvfTcNTf-nvt2FHzzhuE-BpJx7qnfVneGFYDJmVmQ2I1ELQtNEVDqOX_2wzseN7xxUlKQToST9tL3Ts8r_bmOOl4fENeNiNY65y7YRqcU9xT3YMUzpeQ9fY5cgggzTsPp8PNMTnGsEdQtmdVt6Q7q8TtD4m7ib-TaRTvrjHb1w4TBD3/w400-h300/IMG_7487.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ANYONE CAN BE A HERO.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>P.S. Stop the Bleed Kits and other first aid supplies are readily available - even on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=stop+the+bleed+kits&i=industrial&s=relevancerank&crid=3VFXNRCJZVF44&qid=1685540850&sprefix=stop+the+bleed+kits%2Cindustrial%2C142&ref=sr_st_relevancerank&ds=v1%3ALcCXsp0G2mL9onifKBBczdQGORzehE2tPUHAxgZR0is" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-90654280351096676042023-05-21T15:02:00.026-04:002023-05-24T20:45:39.782-04:00The Slow Down<p>T-minus 2 months...</p><p>I'm planning a trip. </p><p>A <i>real</i> trip. </p><p>It wasn't an easy decision. It's been in the works since late December, and I've been thinking about it since way before that.</p><p>(No details yet. From my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/ready-set.html" target="_blank">very first steps</a>, I learned not to jinx future plans!)</p><p>But today -- May 21st -- departure is exactly 2 months away.</p><div style="text-align: left;">So I've been "in training."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Walking more steps. (Or trying!)</div><div style="text-align: left;">Eating more foods in more places.</div><p>And in an effort and to get <i>both</i> feet in working order...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUotwnbg2jlU92IXH36xsV3PECZlIgNEPs1_2WA_GOq354BMeMBQ6B8O0s3xyfMy7f4xuWVYRN7xOrXbLn-yiCowO0VZc8kIDq6Nj9-Xj7uOxWpCu3K3kuIYZbe8z6mwqj-Zg4sTwLkUNxEQouDDhsQsv_snlr9uQ6YdAwzKY97vQI_equhsfIpXh/s4032/Shoe%20shopping.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUotwnbg2jlU92IXH36xsV3PECZlIgNEPs1_2WA_GOq354BMeMBQ6B8O0s3xyfMy7f4xuWVYRN7xOrXbLn-yiCowO0VZc8kIDq6Nj9-Xj7uOxWpCu3K3kuIYZbe8z6mwqj-Zg4sTwLkUNxEQouDDhsQsv_snlr9uQ6YdAwzKY97vQI_equhsfIpXh/s320/Shoe%20shopping.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep - the dreaded shoe shopping!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But earlier this week, all that training hits a wall.</p><p>At first, it feels like a good day. I'm walking comfortably, full of energy. </p><div style="text-align: left;">I'm out on the sidewalk. <br />I'm at work.<br />I'm headed to an appointment. </div><p>But as the afternoon wears on, my stomach gets tight.</p><div style="text-align: left;">Note to self: This is <u>always</u> a sign I should slow down. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Note to you: I ignore the sign. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>It's good training,</i> I tell myself instead. <i>Keep going.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(I'm a hopeless optimist, in case you haven't figured that out yet.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That "seat belt" feeling across my abdomen intensifies as the evening goes on. We've <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2019/09/inside-out.html" target="_blank">been here</a> before, so I'll spare you the details. </div><p>By 9 PM, I'm doubled over with all the hallmarks of a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2022/08/love-is-blind-and-so-is-my-digestive.html" target="_blank">bowel obstruction</a>. </p><p>By 10 PM, I text my brother and friends to be on alert for a possible midnight trip to the ER.</p><p>(Not quite the trip I was training for.)</p><div style="text-align: left;">Eventually... </div><div style="text-align: left;">Finally... </div><div style="text-align: left;">Bit by bit... <br />The symptoms subside. </div><p>(Not quite peacefully, but at least manageably.) </p><p>It leaves me drained.</p><p>I move through the rest of the week in slow motion, scaling back my training to the smallest tasks:</p><div style="text-align: left;">Make a to-do list while sitting on the balcony.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Test new shoes on the hardwood floor.<br />Do PT exercises on my bed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's productive in its own way, but my confidence has taken a hit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>How can I keep pace with travel when I can't even do it at home??</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've faced this question often in <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/04/maintenance-required.html" target="_blank">various forms</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As much as I try to evade the "slow down," it seems to be an inevitable part of the process.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's frustrating. But it's part of who I am.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yet another part of me (that hopelessly optimistic part!) craves a bigger, wider, more energetic and adventurous life. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish the answer were as clear as a countdown,</div><div style="text-align: left;">or walking an extra mile,</div><div style="text-align: left;">or finding the perfect pair of shoes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But what if it's not about <i>keeping pace </i>at all? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What if it's about... <i>accepting</i> it?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Accepting<i> my </i>pace -- with all its setbacks, and speed ups, and slow downs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Accepting that uncertainty -- owning it -- even as I wish and work to make things different.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now there's something to train for!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">May 21 is a good day (so far). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My feet and digestion are bouncing back. It's early to judge, but I'm hopeful.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Plus it's a Sunday. So there's time to go slow.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To mark the day, I pop into our local French bakery <a href="https://icimacarons.square.site/" target="_blank">ICI</a> for a "training treat."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">T-minus 2 months...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfcbFHX-dDAq13cZSlEjWDO4AsmDfLD7hi2UQr6jzsbcKytVA8CL3bEWOZ7JM6FPhrNV3yk6vyz0Qhp3-sH_Gg3yw3qNT1vKTC6dQ9mUJDOyL4IO9_Ru9OcDKTDttgNvD3rPdGwfisU68T4CJu1ppsaVorsjZA4QrqoPxxCn2CIEIQB8lOLSsjguSv/s3024/Croissant.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfcbFHX-dDAq13cZSlEjWDO4AsmDfLD7hi2UQr6jzsbcKytVA8CL3bEWOZ7JM6FPhrNV3yk6vyz0Qhp3-sH_Gg3yw3qNT1vKTC6dQ9mUJDOyL4IO9_Ru9OcDKTDttgNvD3rPdGwfisU68T4CJu1ppsaVorsjZA4QrqoPxxCn2CIEIQB8lOLSsjguSv/s320/Croissant.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and counting.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-36331658060445310092023-05-12T18:07:00.022-04:002023-05-22T09:32:23.780-04:00A Better Place to Be<p>Newport, Rhode Island could be the set of a Hallmark movie.</p><p>From our table at the Corner Café, Natalie and I get a peek behind the scenes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x27Z9wAzX-aNwMVdFg8I1uGRFoHud0T99ulvjUfupXbnfzbIOW4-dj-Myo-NcLVgtIwJe6-oXJNAbmXAqsynHmggdMJcnwp840lRf7dhYNWJuYG-nScxDaGSTXZivYl5Y72x61yWuEg3KyX9iqQwQ6gL6ffmj0-Je1hNshIQm6bE6AIav_PI_Azl/s4032/IMG_7328.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The interior of the Corner Café, a sunny restaurant with lots of windows, wood trim, hanging lamps, and wooden tables and chairs." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x27Z9wAzX-aNwMVdFg8I1uGRFoHud0T99ulvjUfupXbnfzbIOW4-dj-Myo-NcLVgtIwJe6-oXJNAbmXAqsynHmggdMJcnwp840lRf7dhYNWJuYG-nScxDaGSTXZivYl5Y72x61yWuEg3KyX9iqQwQ6gL6ffmj0-Je1hNshIQm6bE6AIav_PI_Azl/w320-h240/IMG_7328.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Just off camera:</i> Three middle school moms sneaking out early while their teens are still in bed. A young bearded guy on a barstool. A woman with 2 little girls in ribbons and party dresses. And a wrinkle-clothed regular who shuffles out for a smoke while his breakfast is cooking. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's Sunday, 7:30 AM, and we're surrounded by locals.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>What are their lives like here? </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Why are they out so early on a weekend? </i></div><p>As we wait for our eggs, Nat and I write the script. We imagine who they are, why they're here today -- and what brings them together at this little breakfast spot across from the local school.</p><p>It's fun. Relaxing. And I'm happy to be here among them.</p><p>Travel is tricky for me, especially in the mornings. Which makes this moment -- the mug of coffee, the sticky jam, the thick multigrain toast -- an extra special treat. </p><p>It's the end of our weekend in Newport and, like any good Hallmark movie, the town has pulled us in for a hug.</p><p>Last night we met a student from the yacht-building academy, who happened to be our waiter at <a href="https://www.knotnorms.com/">Knot Norm's</a>.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFnFr5e3ribbgTk39jza3SGDXn7i9Q_zLl1-IdmsGr26qU-fH3eNGOxX5GVsII7nqoYSoB0X5R0uF-VlLcbBx2JQEv2Qpedd-biE3FVyKL8AGtEktBh0raVRLzLDC1-hIABKbQLTeAdBuR-4lNIUudJuZOLIWlrhdhJf-AedUJ3qAS5uOjyNiNXLm/s4032/IMG_7270.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A wooden bowl with brightly colored pickled-veggies, over rice, with a huge serving of lobster and a lemon on top." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFnFr5e3ribbgTk39jza3SGDXn7i9Q_zLl1-IdmsGr26qU-fH3eNGOxX5GVsII7nqoYSoB0X5R0uF-VlLcbBx2JQEv2Qpedd-biE3FVyKL8AGtEktBh0raVRLzLDC1-hIABKbQLTeAdBuR-4lNIUudJuZOLIWlrhdhJf-AedUJ3qAS5uOjyNiNXLm/w320-h240/IMG_7270.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He introduced us to the "lobster bowl."<br />(Not roll!)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Before that, we met Lew, a science teacher from Northeast Philly, who has settled in Newport for his retirement. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh178YIcLr9sc6_n-6R4kAax8TkXePLeh7IlCdeZfp70CLKfaLHJyoJ1O5y1CLiefoWiexiFmwQfDQ6gbsHdzHfFC4OMKUur_wqbLjBen6wXVQCV_JWx1TCVKO-WJgkr8arHWf4qm8Oc9O64BTakEASbqsXvpIbwUW6JAOD5Sh7BSwoJiuF06v5M046/s4032/IMG_7197.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Natalie and I standing in the colonial-era synagogue with the "bima" and ark behind us." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh178YIcLr9sc6_n-6R4kAax8TkXePLeh7IlCdeZfp70CLKfaLHJyoJ1O5y1CLiefoWiexiFmwQfDQ6gbsHdzHfFC4OMKUur_wqbLjBen6wXVQCV_JWx1TCVKO-WJgkr8arHWf4qm8Oc9O64BTakEASbqsXvpIbwUW6JAOD5Sh7BSwoJiuF06v5M046/w240-h320/IMG_7197.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">He gave us a history lesson <br />at the </span><a href="https://tourosynagogue.org/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">Touro Synagogue</a>!<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p>And because we're <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2019/12/the-hygge-cure.html" target="_blank">us</a>, we also took ourselves on a tour of the <a href="https://redwoodlibrary.org/" target="_blank">library</a>! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhGGnwLkkq2OM-VPa1tEZTztvvl6VOV_ijt_w7J-6VGjBrWCj0hx6SzUBSqSKk9QTn2x_7TDCd02UXAd74IXk8okWcrpmsLkXrSegk0rm-hbFg9s0AfM0LIg_gd_i7yGHDiKwk7Oyd5zKZNBlDasqfrio-rd0XUqPVAC0HSqfMqV1CD724omYiBb_/s4032/IMG_7207.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Natalie is making herself comfortable in a reading chair by a window, pretending to read a book by Louise Erdrich." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhGGnwLkkq2OM-VPa1tEZTztvvl6VOV_ijt_w7J-6VGjBrWCj0hx6SzUBSqSKk9QTn2x_7TDCd02UXAd74IXk8okWcrpmsLkXrSegk0rm-hbFg9s0AfM0LIg_gd_i7yGHDiKwk7Oyd5zKZNBlDasqfrio-rd0XUqPVAC0HSqfMqV1CD724omYiBb_/w240-h320/IMG_7207.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's the Redwood --</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqaTZbLrYKnI0ZVR944wN6Lck9EP7ulKYRkACnmmEMOIZRGL73YXotZNsj7cTheOEePsViiYlK-UGSr1zBiXDYxb4KaNGXHqQRpMYpk2Kar0U89fMdxnCW8NTnUBqzIe1mxbZ3uTTQ0ns2ff9HvDtrlWYIIB5-60Ph6z5-l7-w-s8mdxFzuymzoj2o/s4032/IMG_7210.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm sitting in the children's room of the Redwood Library, holding up two books I read as a kid: "A Wrinkle in Time" and "What's Happening to Me."" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqaTZbLrYKnI0ZVR944wN6Lck9EP7ulKYRkACnmmEMOIZRGL73YXotZNsj7cTheOEePsViiYlK-UGSr1zBiXDYxb4KaNGXHqQRpMYpk2Kar0U89fMdxnCW8NTnUBqzIe1mxbZ3uTTQ0ns2ff9HvDtrlWYIIB5-60Ph6z5-l7-w-s8mdxFzuymzoj2o/w240-h320/IMG_7210.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">one of the oldest in the country!<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In 2 short days, we've made ourselves at home here -- <a href="https://www.newportmansions.org/mansions-and-gardens/the-breakers/" target="_blank">mansions</a> and all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0Hu5Lf5CqYuHHVRKm7omTtRAPM6juzSnJM4EjPUGP1VvmQ3Aa8fkUmf1sk2zw58IwLUuwTqSXY0WuqzRrraJJHxvA_zQNirUuD02UcU0dHwfExc8q6soNaJzz99tPpQM9FWXyCAOGF5qW37j7Z9Rr5up1e9EutxSVp3PrHHGCGi0ey4X2quZVtYs/s4032/IMG_7241.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm standing inside an opulent mansion, on an upstairs balcony, pretending I own the place (LOL)." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0Hu5Lf5CqYuHHVRKm7omTtRAPM6juzSnJM4EjPUGP1VvmQ3Aa8fkUmf1sk2zw58IwLUuwTqSXY0WuqzRrraJJHxvA_zQNirUuD02UcU0dHwfExc8q6soNaJzz99tPpQM9FWXyCAOGF5qW37j7Z9Rr5up1e9EutxSVp3PrHHGCGi0ey4X2quZVtYs/w320-h240/IMG_7241.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I could get used to this. :)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And why not?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The air smells like seafood and campfires. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Church bells chime on the hour.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Cars come to a stop at every crosswalk. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And there's water anywhere we wander. </div><p>We give up trying to figure out which waves are which...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMkhQrUjnKGLbLtb6R2yQyaM9FI7sWaB40GLF-t87mQjANxkrfy4XugWkn9qZXvv4ofPXuczyR4o6FLKhspj7hS3PDY8irNbeaH3p7vPf06TjV7S1kIZ6dFSCHWdCCtuuCmhprrJ5Pq7JvI81hkkdLLoCAL0LqyWeLxzrHj_hkkcFFKVc6njWcw0a3/s4032/IMG_7255.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Sunset on the water with sailboats on a dock in the foreground." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMkhQrUjnKGLbLtb6R2yQyaM9FI7sWaB40GLF-t87mQjANxkrfy4XugWkn9qZXvv4ofPXuczyR4o6FLKhspj7hS3PDY8irNbeaH3p7vPf06TjV7S1kIZ6dFSCHWdCCtuuCmhprrJ5Pq7JvI81hkkdLLoCAL0LqyWeLxzrHj_hkkcFFKVc6njWcw0a3/w320-h240/IMG_7255.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and just enjoy the splash of sunset.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Days flow better here. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sunrise is 20 minutes earlier. (Really!)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And red leaves abound, making spring feel like fall. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjVPNF1lmbpXI11bCDpqCtghNsOdmzntGx_IhvnEVk74lzzvgu873c9J_89HzqMoGSqceO3vGQWJZCV0bKAG-pi9oYQ6BdFr_C-YdrVhNrlCobaF3IfelVBszw8N_Zr6lW4ef0KTv0IX9tp4i0QA06UQUr_U7wEkgmKfqUrqS-Gw-cs3OpEHiFPrpU/s4032/IMG_7295.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A bright red leafed maple tree against a blue sky." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjVPNF1lmbpXI11bCDpqCtghNsOdmzntGx_IhvnEVk74lzzvgu873c9J_89HzqMoGSqceO3vGQWJZCV0bKAG-pi9oYQ6BdFr_C-YdrVhNrlCobaF3IfelVBszw8N_Zr6lW4ef0KTv0IX9tp4i0QA06UQUr_U7wEkgmKfqUrqS-Gw-cs3OpEHiFPrpU/w240-h320/IMG_7295.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We call them "Newport Maples."</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We can't get enough. It's like a show we want to binge-watch, yet savor at the same time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We shop at a local <a href="https://www.charterbookstore.com/" target="_blank">bookstore</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Meet a local <a href="https://www.eileengraphics.com/home" target="_blank">artist</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Become regulars at the local <a href="https://empireteaandcoffee.com/" target="_blank">coffee place</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_e-nWotCFr31QDCFZ0gUEpmOm5Gt4bV57l6ZqZILq0kesycm1b3tellyB8UuuiG2m1uTsCLn24iBSGlUrAc8Z5jGyM5EasHsd8pne7hwTfrarGDD1M3PejZsMoWyds-OUMs1WhHqZ9pkommzR6hFuUxnwreMOW0aivWEOYelabGgz_MaXPS4hDnCn/s4032/IMG_7185.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm standing in Empire Coffee and Tea, holding a medium coffee to-go cup, first thing in the morning." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_e-nWotCFr31QDCFZ0gUEpmOm5Gt4bV57l6ZqZILq0kesycm1b3tellyB8UuuiG2m1uTsCLn24iBSGlUrAc8Z5jGyM5EasHsd8pne7hwTfrarGDD1M3PejZsMoWyds-OUMs1WhHqZ9pkommzR6hFuUxnwreMOW0aivWEOYelabGgz_MaXPS4hDnCn/w240-h320/IMG_7185.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where we sample the local drink, of course --</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVj8cKzHrpXTmNSQQcpavIFLtl9zYVS2x323sPc1V0p0umshYM1si2PDDnuXygjEdYS_B6M8ryDr8PX6YnB0Ycu6LuH4VDJKjDQEzWlmGL1s4h6IozjYRQvit8ZiRuwP6DUbbB68VE_3SHJwfA5fPo_IJBTrdQuehRZH8ymaHiKz4MdQOWfJ4HGlwy/s4032/IMG_7184.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Natalie holding up a refrigerated bottle of Coffee Milk." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVj8cKzHrpXTmNSQQcpavIFLtl9zYVS2x323sPc1V0p0umshYM1si2PDDnuXygjEdYS_B6M8ryDr8PX6YnB0Ycu6LuH4VDJKjDQEzWlmGL1s4h6IozjYRQvit8ZiRuwP6DUbbB68VE_3SHJwfA5fPo_IJBTrdQuehRZH8ymaHiKz4MdQOWfJ4HGlwy/w240-h320/IMG_7184.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee Milk!</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><p>We even learn what the local pineapple symbol means...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDi_dEMKy-wEcoYxJlmXlT-I6yePMZtGR5N_R0ePuKOvEQOPl03kUbEi7JeMa0sSuzYYYO_pp47LL3ZF_XqoFOs9gnEgZNR6QtYNttvKcNE5xsCdIbzliFtnyr7IdggP4-yhuh-kT5qbF9mQKOEegpub7lVOcgwm9A_Ndyxbml3cSK6Nzm7JNe6-i/s3088/IMG_7329.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A selfie of Natalie and me, smiling, in front of the painting of a pineapple wearing sunglasses on a store sign." border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDi_dEMKy-wEcoYxJlmXlT-I6yePMZtGR5N_R0ePuKOvEQOPl03kUbEi7JeMa0sSuzYYYO_pp47LL3ZF_XqoFOs9gnEgZNR6QtYNttvKcNE5xsCdIbzliFtnyr7IdggP4-yhuh-kT5qbF9mQKOEegpub7lVOcgwm9A_Ndyxbml3cSK6Nzm7JNe6-i/w320-h240/IMG_7329.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hospitality!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Newport is not perfect -- or easy. Nowhere is. </p><p>Even with trekking poles, I can only manage a small portion of the <a href="http://www.cliffwalk.com/" target="_blank">Cliffwalk</a>. I get too hot too fast. I nearly sweat out of my leg and die of thirst along the way. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglL_CO0hVNUlAYsqNLcEBeH7RBDMdgi7gO01gmbzT3jm9yryAMVazeRVSnidW91OvmghfUxKiN5sUGBAPsjPcWian5xeCnHcBf5I4ozFJMzr_Vz_zqS8e-wUtYrAPYHsKoG4rJ-yUN4QvrqNESyGLguMzm9MdHbKBsYGdnoZlEUesjWsmwwTNv80B/s4032/IMG_7338.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm standing on a paved path by a railing, with trekking poles in hand, looking hot and frazzled. The water is behind me on one side, and grassland is on the other." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglL_CO0hVNUlAYsqNLcEBeH7RBDMdgi7gO01gmbzT3jm9yryAMVazeRVSnidW91OvmghfUxKiN5sUGBAPsjPcWian5xeCnHcBf5I4ozFJMzr_Vz_zqS8e-wUtYrAPYHsKoG4rJ-yUN4QvrqNESyGLguMzm9MdHbKBsYGdnoZlEUesjWsmwwTNv80B/w240-h320/IMG_7338.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Ok, exaggerating a bit...<br />but it's not my finest moment!)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>That's just one example. </p><p>I feel slow and "stumbly" a lot of the time. Throughout the weekend, we stop so I can tend to leg adjustments and other physical needs.</p><p>In that way, it reminds me of a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/way-life-should-be.html" target="_blank">different road trip</a> many miles ago -- back at <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/way-life-should-be.html" target="_blank">Mile 21</a> -- my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/way-life-should-be.html" target="_blank">first time traveling</a> after my amputation. </p><p>Back then, I had the idea that if I just <i>practiced</i> enough, I'd somehow find my way to a better place -- to where I was <i>before</i> the accident.</p><p>My gait (and feelings) have evolved over time, but I still grapple with similar challenges. </p><p>Now, I've realized, they're just part of the journey.</p><p><br /></p><p>In an instant, we're back home, and that harbor breeze is just a memory. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Philly turns hot and sticky. </div><div style="text-align: left;">My right foot doesn't feel <i>right</i>.</div><p>And at 10 PM, the city launches a new construction project, sending a monsoon of dust and gravel into my beloved <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/05/news-from-balcony.html" target="_blank">balcony garden</a>.</p><p>I lie in bed and imagine moving to Newport.</p><p>I know, I know. I'm sure reality would catch up with me there too.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9XqODgz28CzQKBLmWvYXML00uodlnum4FKtYF2xwA0o1d_cZhLKNKI9wdRC53PxxooaoUpUqr5BRc_0kot2F8-vmm3o8qRNMlIoxQTVaGjeo68m-C113Jsau_zQHRJVPkzh48PCmH39qjEAeQtXNrxaqkpEQWgDKf2jqq1N2HbnNvtqWSpcsNmgd/s4032/IMG_7220.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Natalie and I standing on a grassy patch in front of blue water, with clouds above us." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9XqODgz28CzQKBLmWvYXML00uodlnum4FKtYF2xwA0o1d_cZhLKNKI9wdRC53PxxooaoUpUqr5BRc_0kot2F8-vmm3o8qRNMlIoxQTVaGjeo68m-C113Jsau_zQHRJVPkzh48PCmH39qjEAeQtXNrxaqkpEQWgDKf2jqq1N2HbnNvtqWSpcsNmgd/w240-h320/IMG_7220.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eventually.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p>Maybe Nat and I will put our heads together and write that screenplay. Or maybe the Corner Café will be the setting for my next novel.</p><p>I like to think of our characters back there in Newport, still living their lives. Kinda wish I could join them.</p><p>Who <i>wouldn't</i> want to step inside a Hallmark movie?</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ZuWGxCDzh3dwS_Wq8hTLB98Jr9gvRLVNCKTgazP2uHfTwr3nZmMF0DD0QVxHkCJpmi7XnFgnqHk05siEDcoP_CDjlTrP_fvUYbaKuec3B1rgQcmbRtt1602gQWVCEZg-n2qm0XKjEiNTdl9MMO3TsgDSyT-84Bnu8uwMIxx8J2upANTy4BauOthO/s640/IMG_7271%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm standing on the edge of a dock, trying to "catch" the setting sun in my hands." border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ZuWGxCDzh3dwS_Wq8hTLB98Jr9gvRLVNCKTgazP2uHfTwr3nZmMF0DD0QVxHkCJpmi7XnFgnqHk05siEDcoP_CDjlTrP_fvUYbaKuec3B1rgQcmbRtt1602gQWVCEZg-n2qm0XKjEiNTdl9MMO3TsgDSyT-84Bnu8uwMIxx8J2upANTy4BauOthO/w240-h320/IMG_7271%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's just a better place to be.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><i>P.S. Writing this postcard made me think of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgpbIPQl7CA" target="_blank">this song</a> by Harry Chapin. It's not about Rhode Island, but it's a sweet story - and one of my faves. If you need an 8-minute vacation, give it a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgpbIPQl7CA" target="_blank">listen</a>. :) </i> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtaKGUjOmJ5stQuRxRZFPcEm6qaV94kXxfu-EukH3-Yjp3rFXyGkSpvgynrWygs1-C6zxVbOTDyGLJIMCXfb9VIkP-34KsoKECvcZWfMSgAIaEiHaMNKUpT2j8JMNC1Aqon6dFabwuelmwS3i7KcMHhIUxAmxthY_wEcTWV-TQq4J0MtfqfbmS7Sw/s3438/IMG_7322.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="The last light of sunset down a small town Newport street." border="0" data-original-height="3438" data-original-width="2578" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtaKGUjOmJ5stQuRxRZFPcEm6qaV94kXxfu-EukH3-Yjp3rFXyGkSpvgynrWygs1-C6zxVbOTDyGLJIMCXfb9VIkP-34KsoKECvcZWfMSgAIaEiHaMNKUpT2j8JMNC1Aqon6dFabwuelmwS3i7KcMHhIUxAmxthY_wEcTWV-TQq4J0MtfqfbmS7Sw/w240-h320/IMG_7322.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy travels!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-33535157122515220882023-05-03T14:15:00.004-04:002023-05-03T14:16:39.844-04:00News from the Balcony<p><span style="color: red;"><b>-- Newsflash --</b></span></p><p>My "June-blooming strawberry" has a jumpstart on the season!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2S7EYSSXHc78NVha6OG06TbXlnxStfrBaMNmJTOV2D5qC9DRZsoWNc_F2r29E_aSTd4n2FRGqvZXbtlPpP8SmVv0p4DnADCLSJe9p1NKcq5orBKbbG4_okPFYoSVx7hCJQXMKCyzPJ0jiLwsNewPvtn2KOApqZUORJeVAquOwP-tp09PZi525KRf/s4032/Strawberry%205.1.23.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A close-up of a strawberry, just turning red, surrounded by a few that are still green, in a red flower box on a balcony rail with city buildings and sky in the background." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2S7EYSSXHc78NVha6OG06TbXlnxStfrBaMNmJTOV2D5qC9DRZsoWNc_F2r29E_aSTd4n2FRGqvZXbtlPpP8SmVv0p4DnADCLSJe9p1NKcq5orBKbbG4_okPFYoSVx7hCJQXMKCyzPJ0jiLwsNewPvtn2KOApqZUORJeVAquOwP-tp09PZi525KRf/w300-h400/Strawberry%205.1.23.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>As a late-bloomer myself, I'm impressed I even <i>planted </i>it before June!</p><p>Squished into a flower box 4 inches wide, hanging 3 stories above the city street, I wasn't even sure it would survive. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Add to that...</div><div style="text-align: left;">swinging spring temps, <br />soggy soil, </div><div style="text-align: left;">rain for days.</div><p>Yet against all odds, it's thriving. And early!!</p><p>Maybe it's a sign -- Should I turn over a new leaf too? Maybe I'll too be an "early bird" from now on!</p><p>(If you know me, you're probably laughing.)</p><p>Truth is, I exist in time differently.</p><p>This spring, I've been searching for my body's own rhythms. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Trying to accept them. Work with them.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Move in harmony with the way things are<i>.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">And discover my own pace along the way.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So for now, I'll just bloom where I'm planted. </div><p>Consider the sweetness to come.</p><p>And enjoy the view!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkwlrlSqjlAuX2yu35V1EfbN30KxCk6UE-tG0UxDKDTCUBC1R6OFa5iDX6dqOExfMFjCyaDZ3EVh4f7BwgmuDQA6QWK0lFlMdVeIrmHbn4OTxDrz8qatCefuC99YXmL1_0vKLVa5vGpf0HfvH3gzIv3DCwYO7oXTeYOVTyzqgzSK5L0bY0oM1l9vf6/s3088/Balcony%20night.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me on the balcony at night. I have my hood up and am holding a mug that looks like an owl. Behind me is the red flower box, lit with twinkle lights against the dark sky.." border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkwlrlSqjlAuX2yu35V1EfbN30KxCk6UE-tG0UxDKDTCUBC1R6OFa5iDX6dqOExfMFjCyaDZ3EVh4f7BwgmuDQA6QWK0lFlMdVeIrmHbn4OTxDrz8qatCefuC99YXmL1_0vKLVa5vGpf0HfvH3gzIv3DCwYO7oXTeYOVTyzqgzSK5L0bY0oM1l9vf6/w320-h240/Balcony%20night.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy May!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-64522879582021277592023-04-29T12:43:00.015-04:002023-04-29T13:50:05.501-04:00Taste is Travel<p><a href="https://www.instagram.com/cafetolia/" target="_blank">Café Tolia</a> is the newest spot in our Philly neighborhood. </p><p>It's spacious and warm with exposed brick and white-washed walls. The owners are friendly and welcoming. Elbe bakes the pastries. (I'm not sure how. She must get up at 2 AM!) </p><p>The walls are covered with black and white photos, also by Elbe, of their family's travels and transitions through Europe.</p><p>I'm with my friend and walking buddy Mark. We arrive just minutes after they open.</p><p>When we walk together, Mark always gets a cappuccino and I always get a coffee. We always take them to go, and we always keep walking. I always eat fruit and yogurt when I get home.</p><p>But today, Mark suggests trying a pastry. We haven't planned for this, but I have to admit I'm curious. </p><p>As if to convince me, Elbe emerges from the kitchen with a wooden platter of buns fresh from the oven. </p><p>Turkish pastries, but with French and Mediterranean flavors.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_0oCwbn4WiFoaFNQXXtANUek2xU2PPj6gSup_5VF3Z0S84bmwmHirENNFjtjkoiTrMDFmqyeEnGOZsC0RiQW1WVKJn_Dstk-EgBpMUzMK9LSYHq64Vclkd00Jnxo4pZdMHoSSnGgGiaGLYguNzRyhWQi-k1IiAZr-g-EbCbXVg-8--ZOBMR5nRFE/s4032/Taste.3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Beautiful round buns sprinkled with sesame seeds on a large platter in front of a pot of lavender, with a croissant and pastry case in the background." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_0oCwbn4WiFoaFNQXXtANUek2xU2PPj6gSup_5VF3Z0S84bmwmHirENNFjtjkoiTrMDFmqyeEnGOZsC0RiQW1WVKJn_Dstk-EgBpMUzMK9LSYHq64Vclkd00Jnxo4pZdMHoSSnGgGiaGLYguNzRyhWQi-k1IiAZr-g-EbCbXVg-8--ZOBMR5nRFE/w240-h320/Taste.3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Come on, you'd be tempted too!)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>"They're savory, with lavender and herbs de Provence inside," she tells us, "and also some cheese and olives."</p><p>She had me at lavender.</p><p>But the thing is, I have certain routines, especially to start the day. It's one way I manage my digestive issues.</p><p>Eating outside that comfort zone can feel, well... <i>uncomfortable</i>.</p><p>On the other hand, I've been working on my "flexibility muscles" for both mind and body. </p><p><i>Why? </i> Being flexible is necessary for travel.</p><div style="text-align: left;">I want to travel. <br />I love to travel. <br />I want to love traveling!</div><div style="text-align: left;">(It's just uncomfortable sometimes.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I'm practicing...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I give into the buns.</div><p>As we unexpectedly take a seat -- instead of taking our coffees to go -- I relax into the pastry. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Feel the butter on my fingertips. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Taste the tangy olives, the subtle herbs. <br />Watch crumbles of feta fall onto my plate.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mark and I talk about how <i>taste</i> creates experience. How it can define a place as much as, or more than, our other senses.</div><p>How taste and travel go together.</p><p>I tell him about a trip I took to Bordeaux in 2010, the summer before my accident. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I was braver back then. Fearlessly independent. More flexible. Less clingy to routines.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I biked everywhere. Hiked everywhere.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PY8ANkdJ42Sj8daPHx9QF_w3HwAKMwv6aA6-c3qTQ_qtQU37HOFLL-YfWQZhk3n7YMm6yI4ug9HYPC2J6jFHGFS-sNlok_rE60K2gc6zkW2zZ8uEdhynO2ApJROO_2Vq9PYE3GZrJSY8jqE3DdBOxpzhp7Js_GWJSXFyGSnx2F3b-dMZXX56cvD5/s2816/137.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A photo of me (before amputation) eating something at a French market." border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="2112" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PY8ANkdJ42Sj8daPHx9QF_w3HwAKMwv6aA6-c3qTQ_qtQU37HOFLL-YfWQZhk3n7YMm6yI4ug9HYPC2J6jFHGFS-sNlok_rE60K2gc6zkW2zZ8uEdhynO2ApJROO_2Vq9PYE3GZrJSY8jqE3DdBOxpzhp7Js_GWJSXFyGSnx2F3b-dMZXX56cvD5/w240-h320/137.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ate everything!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Each morning I set out to discover what the locals were eating for <i>petit-dejeuner</i>, and that's what I'd order too.</p><p>But even back then, I was just one person -- and a petite 90-pounder at that. Although I wanted to taste everything, I just didn't have room to put it! </p><p>One morning I sat in the window of a local café watching some teenagers seated outside.</p><p>As I savored my own <a href="https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/chaussons-aux-pommes-french-apple-turnovers" target="_blank"><i>chausson aux pommes</i>,</a> I observed their fantastic spread:</p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>du jus d'orange<br /></i><i>du chocolat chaud<br /></i><i>du thé<br /></i><i>du café<br /></i><i>du gateau<br /></i><i>des pains<br /></i><i>du jambon<br /></i><i>des fromages<br /></i><i>des oeufs!</i></div><p>"It was all so spectacular," I tell Mark, "I recorded their entire meal in my journal!" </p><p>When I get home, I search out that very page...</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtFWOueHIrCDUPfw8pvgXVm4Vnc1CB1K4jyrY1zJXpNHvuMOohqjHM2lEk94xAIVWhJSbZjtM5msviAndB0sVv5Uq5LpmB9omlB0ycRKMPv-uv2AMLLnT7LVvlcoMn9es0sJPfh4dBagX1aBOeRJbbP_zSYceVeyBmbWuf3AlzjxuchIA8ijKw6JS/s2100/Taste.1.jpg"><img alt="A page from my journal, covered in text -- both French and English" border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="1575" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtFWOueHIrCDUPfw8pvgXVm4Vnc1CB1K4jyrY1zJXpNHvuMOohqjHM2lEk94xAIVWhJSbZjtM5msviAndB0sVv5Uq5LpmB9omlB0ycRKMPv-uv2AMLLnT7LVvlcoMn9es0sJPfh4dBagX1aBOeRJbbP_zSYceVeyBmbWuf3AlzjxuchIA8ijKw6JS/w240-h320/Taste.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wCS9Mww9IbLIZQumNdtaYRnDBBa5RVoNLLTiyuBp0aqLfB5VFiZomhMePGroMRcThe1J1sJJg3GwtXOkIcGX8Dx9PAnFgg3Exq8tm1xn1PhDYYLl5URAamuOp4EE-wTCiLkMyDFFrdZVKAezE-gd80dVpRi4U1eZKNam-kmfrY2pOlYDAmvwodp-/s2100/Taste.2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A second page, with a continued description of the teenager's food!" border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="1575" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wCS9Mww9IbLIZQumNdtaYRnDBBa5RVoNLLTiyuBp0aqLfB5VFiZomhMePGroMRcThe1J1sJJg3GwtXOkIcGX8Dx9PAnFgg3Exq8tm1xn1PhDYYLl5URAamuOp4EE-wTCiLkMyDFFrdZVKAezE-gd80dVpRi4U1eZKNam-kmfrY2pOlYDAmvwodp-/w240-h320/Taste.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...it turns out to be 2 pages!!</td></tr></tbody></table></div><p>Thirteen years later, I can still taste that morning. I still remember that meal like it was yesterday.</p><p>Maybe it's because of my own challenges that eating something new feels so special.</p><p>It's like freedom. Like setting worry aside, just for the moment. Like making room for uncertainty and welcoming it in. </p><p>Mark and I finish our pastries. And before I know it, I'm back home again. </p><p>But taste is travel. </p><p>And this morning's adventure made an old route feel new again. </p><p>Like we left our neighborhood -- and ventured much, much further.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi42yBsEm-9huRnxs4_Rjlawl3EoNVknOeMRBS4Gly9O3T21Muu3wxU7ch37RrEHgmtCQxIWEZrDcXuBmiOi5Vf-6xPTQrny82VM4fJoMmMhUWrvVZFVg0i2nveAkIou7XVtOLRBMtOuRENU1RV1U7V-aeh7pGXn3N6F343KALBd9j5ojgfXxnReAy/s2816/Taste.5.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A photo of a café in Bordeaux called Le Chouquet's, with colorful tables outside and 4 teens seated at the one under the window." border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi42yBsEm-9huRnxs4_Rjlawl3EoNVknOeMRBS4Gly9O3T21Muu3wxU7ch37RrEHgmtCQxIWEZrDcXuBmiOi5Vf-6xPTQrny82VM4fJoMmMhUWrvVZFVg0i2nveAkIou7XVtOLRBMtOuRENU1RV1U7V-aeh7pGXn3N6F343KALBd9j5ojgfXxnReAy/w320-h240/Taste.5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bordeaux 2010 :)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-76047657125551638532023-04-25T14:24:00.032-04:002023-04-27T09:49:55.838-04:00Maintenance Required<p>At the end of a busy week, my car's maintenance light comes on.</p><p><i>Oh no! Not now! I don't have time for this!</i></p><p>Maybe you've experienced this yourself. </p><p>Or maybe you sense some foreshadowing here. Remember the <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-green-goblin.html" target="_blank">Green Goblin</a>? </p><p>I had a strange symbiosis with my old car. Whenever it got a flat tire, it was a sure sign that my body was headed for a breakdown too.</p><p>But this week, that maintenance light takes me by surprise. </p><p>After a <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/04/pink.html" target="_blank">pink-ish</a> start, I was moving at a pretty good clip. By Friday, I even caught up with friends Cécile and Mark<i> </i>for a<i> délicieux déjeuner </i>and <i>petite promenade</i> through the spring blooms of their neighborhood.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4RkGRGbGvIPgnq6DvcYEFfntOxY2XAXA3AN8A01Tqd15XrOqko4sc5cTwGhnVey6_Y_oOvKy8YlYlLTh8qPrv7oHDdhhrTapjPJ-7O_AFQUOM-LUgIWBB63gcb4j2XsVZg6XjJwSkuUa04QV0D4r8xpO0M9lOitSeguNlSkjF2V6FFHeotEJZnw0/s2048/Ceciles%20House%204.21.23.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me, David, Cécile, and Mark in a suburban yard with trees behind us." border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4RkGRGbGvIPgnq6DvcYEFfntOxY2XAXA3AN8A01Tqd15XrOqko4sc5cTwGhnVey6_Y_oOvKy8YlYlLTh8qPrv7oHDdhhrTapjPJ-7O_AFQUOM-LUgIWBB63gcb4j2XsVZg6XjJwSkuUa04QV0D4r8xpO0M9lOitSeguNlSkjF2V6FFHeotEJZnw0/w320-h240/Ceciles%20House%204.21.23.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And bonus, I met their friend David --<br /> who's been "walking" with me (via this blog) <br />for quite a while!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It was a good week -- a good "normal" kind of busy.</p><p>When things are going well, I sometimes forget that traveling with a disability uses a bit more fuel. </p><p>At times, it drains fast and unpredictably. My body is more sensitive to weather and schedule changes, dehydration, and overuse. Every activity has a cost attached.</p><p>So when I suddenly feel tired and overwhelmed (a.k.a my body's maintenance light comes on), I shouldn't be surprised. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJT1ZtF4qHPKXkhOU8GK1iEkQkWSoqNkmnDtIFaTvsezR-wxB8YaZk8-z00FMjlIw4FSgMpKRpyb6wWxx-zX49q7J891rBtjkE0m9B40ToHFDsVjJv2xvwl6HYBVVLPQBIPmxPnZyxJJzQbRM-o97Ar8GjWUJIPzR_7-3OVZrCG86UAzw6hNX1N0A/s4032/Normal%20Person%20Plaque.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A plaque that says "Pretending to be a normal person day after day is exhausting."" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJT1ZtF4qHPKXkhOU8GK1iEkQkWSoqNkmnDtIFaTvsezR-wxB8YaZk8-z00FMjlIw4FSgMpKRpyb6wWxx-zX49q7J891rBtjkE0m9B40ToHFDsVjJv2xvwl6HYBVVLPQBIPmxPnZyxJJzQbRM-o97Ar8GjWUJIPzR_7-3OVZrCG86UAzw6hNX1N0A/w240-h320/Normal%20Person%20Plaque.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep, it's that. <br />Exactly.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Even a "normal" week requires careful curating -- and maintenance breaks. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUX3IpoMp9c09-XB4SJaFoGArP-wpU2pojUzJpevrlmwhR7PtqIDnYmlGxB1TH5j3aYbyDNZJMG37Jv1sKPMMIis8A1Ouvxy-1QQsclA3iZs-9C2ulG_nmfQXx1ApP5C7yAbmIYOgkvyIhuyu0D85RvK1vj2PYWCy3wJ-zP8Tljddyl8wnALqXuUgz/s3741/Leg%20maintenance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A photo of the exam table at the doctor's office with all my prosthetic gear strewn about." border="0" data-original-height="3741" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUX3IpoMp9c09-XB4SJaFoGArP-wpU2pojUzJpevrlmwhR7PtqIDnYmlGxB1TH5j3aYbyDNZJMG37Jv1sKPMMIis8A1Ouvxy-1QQsclA3iZs-9C2ulG_nmfQXx1ApP5C7yAbmIYOgkvyIhuyu0D85RvK1vj2PYWCy3wJ-zP8Tljddyl8wnALqXuUgz/w259-h320/Leg%20maintenance.jpg" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a skill I'm still working on. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;">I want to do everything, but I have to give my body what it needs. Refuel it with short pauses. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's frustrating sometimes, but I try to think of them as small doses of self-care. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It might mean canceling plans. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Or prioritizing. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Or scaling back a day to its most essential parts.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">It might mean taking a breather -- like lying down to do my PT exercises.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytVukD_QD59WpJjqWVfqRgEX-ZhFq0l_Af4IoCHXYx_jrIFpC3gqYf5exnAdy4QyWunmI30dtm7JTJOb36YQLAA4N0S1WJbi9L_BLiO6tJ1tZ3oBHoI9148qmtmH68oOJ9YXPV3WHe-PB4m7hjF3aXQlKisGJGaGdaaHdHV48iWfu0ECEpfdsei4a/s4032/Morning%20sun.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The sunlit city sidewalk, with the sun bursting through the leaves of a tree." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytVukD_QD59WpJjqWVfqRgEX-ZhFq0l_Af4IoCHXYx_jrIFpC3gqYf5exnAdy4QyWunmI30dtm7JTJOb36YQLAA4N0S1WJbi9L_BLiO6tJ1tZ3oBHoI9148qmtmH68oOJ9YXPV3WHe-PB4m7hjF3aXQlKisGJGaGdaaHdHV48iWfu0ECEpfdsei4a/w240-h320/Morning%20sun.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or feeling the sun on my face <br />first thing in the morning.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLShA6l6FGTEiUebis4yg_xsp4_GHd2XdTBA-gGhmYOQHDZKn0zNau5XKanJzFzjt5OssmcPIqIVD9RLcuJ7eJ_mfHY8o0bZffjOD9XfdklGMFaJvBYYvEhpnG0fz_Om4px4eNcYZeKmr282JwxpYDeT_KGnX5qLfHW7N55H-4ZxWT0cduu0yGLRSv/s4032/Old%20Christ%20Church%20Garden.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My 2 feet (prosthetic and real) on a stone path between two bushes of white flowers." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLShA6l6FGTEiUebis4yg_xsp4_GHd2XdTBA-gGhmYOQHDZKn0zNau5XKanJzFzjt5OssmcPIqIVD9RLcuJ7eJ_mfHY8o0bZffjOD9XfdklGMFaJvBYYvEhpnG0fz_Om4px4eNcYZeKmr282JwxpYDeT_KGnX5qLfHW7N55H-4ZxWT0cduu0yGLRSv/w320-h240/Old%20Christ%20Church%20Garden.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or stopping to smell the flowers -- literally!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Or taking time out to write a "postcard" for this blog. (Because that's refilling too.)</div><p>The challenge, <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-new-normal.html" target="_blank">like always</a>, is finding a balance I can maintain.</p><p><br /></p><p>I drive a different car now. A hybrid. </p><p>It's small and cute and gets about a thousand miles to the gallon. (Kidding, of course -- but it goes pretty far on a single tank of gas!)</p><p>I wish my body had the same endurance...</p><p>As an amputee I'm grateful to be able to drive. I depend on my car much more than I did when I had 2 legs. </p><p>But that also means paying attention when the maintenance light comes on. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Even if life is busy. <br />Even if it's inconvenient. <br />Even if it's just an oil change.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(which I hope it is!)</div><p>I know people say there's a time for everything.</p><p>I just haven't found it yet. :)</p><p><br /></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-46311822430793726972023-04-19T12:38:00.007-04:002023-04-19T12:41:58.769-04:00Pink<p>This day needs a reboot, and it's only 6 AM.</p><p>I work harder to get into my prosthesis.</p><p>I stamp the foot, pressing down as hard as I can. Shift my weight onto the right side. Then back again to the left. I do this over and over (and over and over and over) again. </p><div style="text-align: left;">10 times...<br />12 times...<br />24 times...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Today, even more times....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's a workout.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You'd laugh if you watched. It's like a clumsy Irish dance. Or an elephant stamping out a herd of ants.</div><p>"My downstairs neighbors love it," I sometimes joke. "Especially early in the morning." </p><p>But today I don't feel like laughing. Today it's just exhausting.</p><p>My abdomen isn't great either. Digestive issues woke me throughout the night, and now it feels like there's a rock ricocheting around my belly as I jump up and down. </p><p>And then... my phone <i>tings</i> on the nightstand. A text.</p><p>Come on. This early??</p><p>It feels like the whole world has its act together, and I've already fallen behind.</p><p><br /></p><p>From my very <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/baby-steps.html" target="_blank">first miles</a> as an amputee, I learned it was better to step out than to stay in. So I grab my jacket and coffee cup, and close the door behind me.</p><p>It's a small victory.</p><p>Halfway down the street, I run into Donna. (Actually she's the runner, so she runs into me.) </p><p>I greet her with a litany of complaints about the day so far. </p><p>But by the time we round the next corner, the conversation changes course.</p><p>The sun throws shadows down Market Street, and Donna tells me about a new pizza place she and Mike tried. They got pepperoni. With a coupon. Win-win.</p><p>Our chat jumps around as much as I jumped around to get my leg on.</p><p>We steer clear of sidewalk hazards. Stop for coffee. </p><p>And eventually, we end up here...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyurr8OVnW4IzsrlCPYIAlm7A3cI_mCuUxcN_Ow743amYMAhdgP5zmS9Q4f7In0TvD50EblTqH5y08QbSA5-rbEdzNhtEqXYarQ7DUr2akspjvtt7vRq3UOvttq9ITZJlsB18E4k26QHQNFhMPAq57rSQPBnqLqLFnpzXB3gZIN_KBpIIunYl0Z5qj/s4032/Pink.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A sidewalk and grassy patch covered in fallen pink blossoms and a tree above filled with them." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyurr8OVnW4IzsrlCPYIAlm7A3cI_mCuUxcN_Ow743amYMAhdgP5zmS9Q4f7In0TvD50EblTqH5y08QbSA5-rbEdzNhtEqXYarQ7DUr2akspjvtt7vRq3UOvttq9ITZJlsB18E4k26QHQNFhMPAq57rSQPBnqLqLFnpzXB3gZIN_KBpIIunYl0Z5qj/w240-h320/Pink.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...in the pink!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As we pause with wonder underneath, something inside me shifts ever so slightly.</p><p>Maybe it's that color pink -- a mix of pale and hot -- which I always envisioned as my "power color" when I <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2017/08/how-to-climb-anything.html" target="_blank">climbed</a>.</p><p>Or maybe it's the parallel between my body and nature. (Nothing's permanent... this too shall pass!)</p><p>Or maybe it's the vibe that comes from running into a friend on a morning when you need one.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYuJA0WSYrL05xTS2LLpS2Ze-hJOAiMaxjVW4ct3CxM9TWbp6d_O7HORW3mTgO_2Kh3Ju-7VtcbUaVp65UiqSFr7MPK_nM5jOr_S5gzPcYQny80BV9so1iEwbp9in8qa-6hPOsS64xWR2lew9nzC08Jm4liNXWX-zXR0rilxpttAmlhijhG-YzZXg/s4032/Pink.2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Donna standing on the path under the pink tree. She's facing away from me, but turning to look back." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYuJA0WSYrL05xTS2LLpS2Ze-hJOAiMaxjVW4ct3CxM9TWbp6d_O7HORW3mTgO_2Kh3Ju-7VtcbUaVp65UiqSFr7MPK_nM5jOr_S5gzPcYQny80BV9so1iEwbp9in8qa-6hPOsS64xWR2lew9nzC08Jm4liNXWX-zXR0rilxpttAmlhijhG-YzZXg/w240-h320/Pink.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, yes, it's definitely that :)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Or maybe it's just getting out of the house -- and out of my head!</p><p>I don't understand it anymore than I understand why my leg and my abdomen picked this particular morning to act up at the same time. Oh well.</p><p>Whatever it is -- like other <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2023/01/acts-of-resilience.html" target="_blank">signs </a>from other morning walks -- those blossoms shout out a message to me.</p><p>When life gives you a reboot, run with it. </p><p>Or in my case...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8u-vy8hEvK_t5SHVI-nbnDc3dT4IDFKhtY7apd_XQbAm-sKW2JGbZcsqnh7kRvRQ1E_lyWLB_aXVVNcrfY9in6HeZKAIy0mCz2xAQP2ng0CQZaDOq2jdmx7Bfwjz6_r5nfZq7viVc0pDOosCqVSlEI_av40H8OmLOK5dlroMVCqPaoTEFNyirGzx/s3088/Pink.3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A selfie of me holding up a pink-trimmed coffee cup under a tree of pink blossoms. I'm smiling." border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8u-vy8hEvK_t5SHVI-nbnDc3dT4IDFKhtY7apd_XQbAm-sKW2JGbZcsqnh7kRvRQ1E_lyWLB_aXVVNcrfY9in6HeZKAIy0mCz2xAQP2ng0CQZaDOq2jdmx7Bfwjz6_r5nfZq7viVc0pDOosCqVSlEI_av40H8OmLOK5dlroMVCqPaoTEFNyirGzx/w240-h320/Pink.3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">walk with it!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-23539170980832269682023-04-11T10:32:00.011-04:002023-04-15T14:01:13.942-04:00To Market, To Market...<p>These peppers deserve their own postcard!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLMi6QEiqbQSk-MRLzXOwt3-8drvRPgjkJ57HPcveThh4Biv0ZAGH-YEuwPdBYYRcj5EJ5yKPGG2j2_ojQujsMsGdDW1lwBLXBFwUY_bxwro_Fo9jI_d1BGgkwOS3t-ad2kYzhUkrjiI-kKJN3gRAGfBxKU_i_Hc9TG_fMSqkTs5_xnI1JZqoY2Bn/s4032/Claudios.4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A jar of roasted red peppers, held in my hand in my kitchen at home. It says "Ventia, Sicilian-style peperonata."" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLMi6QEiqbQSk-MRLzXOwt3-8drvRPgjkJ57HPcveThh4Biv0ZAGH-YEuwPdBYYRcj5EJ5yKPGG2j2_ojQujsMsGdDW1lwBLXBFwUY_bxwro_Fo9jI_d1BGgkwOS3t-ad2kYzhUkrjiI-kKJN3gRAGfBxKU_i_Hc9TG_fMSqkTs5_xnI1JZqoY2Bn/w240-h320/Claudios.4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>On an unexpected early morning, I spot them in the crowded aisle of a little Italian grocery shop called <a href="http://claudiofood.com/about.html" target="_blank">Claudio</a>. </p><p>"Claudio's" (as the locals say) is at the northern end of South Philly's Italian Market. It's across from <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2016/06/wish-wall.html" target="_blank">Gleaner's Café</a><u>,</u> a longtime favorite coffee stop.</p><p>After coffee, Ellen wants to pop inside for "one thing."</p><p>(It's been years since I've been in Claudio's. So... why not?)</p><p>What starts out as a quick errand turns into a full-fledged field trip.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRSsu5X55zC2ZkwQZBfqxvidoA6dZ24mijjcallTFsbBaNTcqK9UzZiA1M22eH13e8rXUec4kpam5W3DjJv4TElVLKt_LcSX6MFdkvYmJLn9zmcGY3ju1BRjwwQNFqIaZmnEjlZ5P9cyn_s-3tX1Kb8wnQKhumvz1q7IkFj2h6ZkSNEdu-mNZHwysJ/s4032/Claudios.2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me standing in Claudio's next to a cheese, suspended from the ceiling, that's as tall as I am." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRSsu5X55zC2ZkwQZBfqxvidoA6dZ24mijjcallTFsbBaNTcqK9UzZiA1M22eH13e8rXUec4kpam5W3DjJv4TElVLKt_LcSX6MFdkvYmJLn9zmcGY3ju1BRjwwQNFqIaZmnEjlZ5P9cyn_s-3tX1Kb8wnQKhumvz1q7IkFj2h6ZkSNEdu-mNZHwysJ/w240-h320/Claudios.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't you just love when that happens??</td></tr></tbody></table><p>See, peppers aren't really the point of this postcard -- MARKETS are!</p><p>In the years of the pandemic and <i>not</i> traveling, I forgot the way a local market can be a travel adventure in itself.</p><p>When we step inside, all those memories come rushing back.</p><p>Take Copenhagen -- my <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2019/12/the-hygge-cure.html" target="_blank">last trip </a>before the world shut down.</p><p>Natalie and I arrived in <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2019/12/the-hygge-cure.html" target="_blank">Copenhagen</a> in the evening dusk. Granted, sunset was at 3:45 PM, but after an overnight flight, a connection in London, a train from the airport, and dragging our luggage along the drizzly sidewalk, we were too exhausted to search for a restaurant. </p><p>Instead, we were lured by the fluorescent lights of our neighborhood <i>Lidl</i>...</p><div style="text-align: left;">Smoked salmon! <br />Dark rye! <br />Local yogurt!<br />Bars of chocolate! </div><p>Our eyes widened. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Every shelf was exciting! <br />Seeing Danish shoppers was exciting! <br />Counting our <i>kroner</i> at check-out was exciting!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NJxPTZuOSiWKoHatteOldS48OqFx9zy4rF6qm7kEzJyGgUBlI6RU3bam_nqXOyfvY6DLZs_ZSGi1ilnMSv_X7TPcAEm0beu-G8slblPZMHdpRRUlGul9_qdNoz6_d7PPgHZEkSQiRG7TThXY8yO5EffpTohSACYY5SBipwQGVhb1KCYh8DReomHh/s3088/IMG_1030.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of Natalie and me under the Lidl sign in Copenhagen. The sky is dark and the sign is lit in blue and yellow." border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NJxPTZuOSiWKoHatteOldS48OqFx9zy4rF6qm7kEzJyGgUBlI6RU3bam_nqXOyfvY6DLZs_ZSGi1ilnMSv_X7TPcAEm0beu-G8slblPZMHdpRRUlGul9_qdNoz6_d7PPgHZEkSQiRG7TThXY8yO5EffpTohSACYY5SBipwQGVhb1KCYh8DReomHh/w240-h320/IMG_1030.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Lidl" became our regular stop<br />on the way home each night!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>If you have mobility or health issues like I do, local markets SCORE BIG. They're a relief -- and a necessity -- when traveling.</p><div style="text-align: left;">They offer flat terrain,<br />climate control (sometimes), <br />and a welcome reprieve from heavy restaurant food.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZl0wr7PJ5x5w_bvEZDo7R6eqQVdMuZFprppPyFINRfo2sLhraAmK7neQ7ZU5gdEM74F0-Y579_kNIwopCqeMoAhQQ-le34mXVdhzB-lkupWjQdPABbipW-JzHv2THjdaSBvsx0UetyjAHjzgGZczGQfAUWTuO6vKKfZmU-k63Cr-UXxq158qrrdQ/s960/41897997_1899295916813524_7460692174103904256_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Marla and me outside of a cafe in Austria with a plate of pastries in front of us." border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="960" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZl0wr7PJ5x5w_bvEZDo7R6eqQVdMuZFprppPyFINRfo2sLhraAmK7neQ7ZU5gdEM74F0-Y579_kNIwopCqeMoAhQQ-le34mXVdhzB-lkupWjQdPABbipW-JzHv2THjdaSBvsx0UetyjAHjzgGZczGQfAUWTuO6vKKfZmU-k63Cr-UXxq158qrrdQ/w320-h304/41897997_1899295916813524_7460692174103904256_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One can't subsist on pastries alone --<br />or at least I can't!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2018/10/my-favorite-miles-austria-2018.html" target="_blank">Austria</a>, where "<i>Gluten" Morgen </i>was a daily greeting<i>,</i> Marla and I (and my tender digestive system) took refuge in local shops where we could pick up fresh fruit, salads...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYAEUrnFebnEqQQkSOxgtvdMYPnYcW7ZpkBlbDBawRVTqcGmcl8wL2Xjkr5256k5lUAJPswrg7BJqxiDZQl8TgosbHre4H9jgFTDSfeBDQZUty6VombswPWqBlEgQ--aNf95IZyYvFcEaFYJLkxIarGFq5wL9UhXQpedPSBTqDFkuuF6G4ASsG4fb/s4032/IMG_8246.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me standing in front of a bulk food bin at an all-natural food store in Innsbruck, Austria" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYAEUrnFebnEqQQkSOxgtvdMYPnYcW7ZpkBlbDBawRVTqcGmcl8wL2Xjkr5256k5lUAJPswrg7BJqxiDZQl8TgosbHre4H9jgFTDSfeBDQZUty6VombswPWqBlEgQ--aNf95IZyYvFcEaFYJLkxIarGFq5wL9UhXQpedPSBTqDFkuuF6G4ASsG4fb/w240-h320/IMG_8246.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and my personal fave,<br />homemade Austrian muesli!<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>And in <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2017/04/so-she-did.html" target="_blank">Nice</a>, on my very <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2017/04/so-she-did.html" target="_blank">first trip overseas</a> as an amputee, Mary and I discovered the famous and colorful outdoor market, <a href="https://thegoodlifefrance.com/cours-saleya-market-in-nice-france/" target="_blank">Cours Saleya. </a><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjFW7MsoQ1Bq2mLYpvVYQ3VB_urSPOPu7XpjqBNvkS8lZxrPlpQg2VSfNNm6CU8Cv7Nlt00aAQczstonsy3d8pQ2ahtcLPxOlC0jG0qaR18GEeRry007_v2NXCEEHLtWVVoRuUHAppb5zRoJWJJbDcvxWihGH7CBHdBcrCf0r1fqc6RSpF3_yRqom/s3264/IMG_9599.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A vegetable stall at the Cours Saleya, with a black and white striped awning overhead and wicker bistro chairs stacked in the background." border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjFW7MsoQ1Bq2mLYpvVYQ3VB_urSPOPu7XpjqBNvkS8lZxrPlpQg2VSfNNm6CU8Cv7Nlt00aAQczstonsy3d8pQ2ahtcLPxOlC0jG0qaR18GEeRry007_v2NXCEEHLtWVVoRuUHAppb5zRoJWJJbDcvxWihGH7CBHdBcrCf0r1fqc6RSpF3_yRqom/w240-h320/IMG_9599.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A perfect place for early morning walks!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fNk2kEHY7he2ysLB-eSayTPgNT2fWMX8OPtE1DypLLk4ZMaTJYRM0h441YtZ9_uSe9uT4D_WKPINWfaNcTlBB2tYaXFiWG5gR4JTwHGUI4Xn2saV2d0nLgXOJbIdtUC5L80u_6OUn5XnDndQ4eV8ShDwX52OBBm8Lcj-h-Dl2U4HFlsavm08E9em/s3264/IMG_9579.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Our dining table at our Airbnb, with plates of fresh fruits, salad, veggies, and cheeses from the market." border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fNk2kEHY7he2ysLB-eSayTPgNT2fWMX8OPtE1DypLLk4ZMaTJYRM0h441YtZ9_uSe9uT4D_WKPINWfaNcTlBB2tYaXFiWG5gR4JTwHGUI4Xn2saV2d0nLgXOJbIdtUC5L80u_6OUn5XnDndQ4eV8ShDwX52OBBm8Lcj-h-Dl2U4HFlsavm08E9em/w320-h240/IMG_9579.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shopping <i>à la francaise</i> (aka "French style")<br />was even <u>better</u> than eating out!<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Our food vocabulary blossomed. We progressed from pointing and pantomiming to actually <i>talking</i> our way through transactions. <div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2tU1Y_RQX4B2dvntpie4Oot_AMJ1xR-DBzkD2_duDmQ8PSjHk55xuVptiY-1VShIllzpHxs3c8E_t4aPwXR5_pIlvgqf1P0T77jQxeHrnvwChpmTyPDZUXMu6eNFKezEZ4BX239FG_dzf1hOcGlfeDhPDcQcGnMb2XZvHK0q6LFwJCXGe3VfVWpc/s3264/IMG_9589.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A cheese vendor in the Cours Saleya, with a striped awning overhead, and Mary (from the back) ordering cheese at the counter." border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2tU1Y_RQX4B2dvntpie4Oot_AMJ1xR-DBzkD2_duDmQ8PSjHk55xuVptiY-1VShIllzpHxs3c8E_t4aPwXR5_pIlvgqf1P0T77jQxeHrnvwChpmTyPDZUXMu6eNFKezEZ4BX239FG_dzf1hOcGlfeDhPDcQcGnMb2XZvHK0q6LFwJCXGe3VfVWpc/w320-h240/IMG_9589.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">By the end of the week, we even asked a </span><i style="text-align: left;">fromagière</i><span style="text-align: left;"><br />to wrap cheese for our airline trip home!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Today's stop at Claudio's reminds me how a market is a glimpse into local life -- wherever you are. </p><div style="text-align: left;">We stand in line behind a South Philly dad.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He orders fresh mozzarella balls,</div><div style="text-align: left;">a log of <i>soppressata</i> longer than my forearm, <br />and a super-sized container of marinated octopus, complete with suckers. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">His wife and kids stand patiently beside him cradling bags of hand-shaped pasta. </div><p>As they reach the check-out counter, his daughter points to a four-pack of fancy Italian lemon spritzers. She looks hopefully at her dad. </p><p>He nods. And she adds it to their purchase.</p><p>"I'd like to go to<i> his</i> house for dinner," Ellen whispers.</p><p>By the time we step outside, it's like we just returned from Italy...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbZKjn7uAwjTrM7RyC1ypk6AoDH6c8OqsLMY_QSN-qk8UQZn-bhWdaZLoXIPntjB30R53rW7ZKqMFFBx9-XNZwkXS9f8mwWq7Cu0ShDnRJB41J7qc_CPis7q647WmoV4drWOj90JeqkZ1pFzE2mMgkIBuOBulxnDxlgXDZPeCBXcO0dVX1dxzGrEb/s3088/Claudios.3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="a selfie of Ellen and me standing outside under the Claudio sign" border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbZKjn7uAwjTrM7RyC1ypk6AoDH6c8OqsLMY_QSN-qk8UQZn-bhWdaZLoXIPntjB30R53rW7ZKqMFFBx9-XNZwkXS9f8mwWq7Cu0ShDnRJB41J7qc_CPis7q647WmoV4drWOj90JeqkZ1pFzE2mMgkIBuOBulxnDxlgXDZPeCBXcO0dVX1dxzGrEb/w240-h320/Claudios.3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">via South Philly!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>No plane fare, packing, or planning. Just minutes from home.</p><p>My souvenir -- a $6.99 jar of Sicilian-style roasted peppers with pine nuts and golden raisins. :)</p><p>Pretty good bang for the buck.</p><p>Shop on!</p><div style="text-align: left;">Happy travels,<br /><span style="font-family: Homemade Apple;">Rebecca</span></div></div></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-53096738482547578542023-03-22T21:38:00.010-04:002023-03-23T07:59:36.825-04:00Thanks St. Joe's!<p>Potential.</p><p>That's what I see as I stand in front of all these physical therapy students at St. Joseph's University today.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHkANaltcBHNjHVSX63-PgfFyZiaYtWMYbjHMk7rYKH8Kuw9FdQBUSRj1Dv-d2s11vrHApxwGpIgnlzNVmYEuEO6AabpfksoEUf-Dx2x3PEfllQxGuAU6ctnKFBgCgHT4zDMR_8zcSnyuQmCBig5YaQfZ2Khb4rH1-S7fhc8bhmYaEVTBeGjZnPlx/s3428/St.%20Joes%20PT%20Class.3.22.23.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A group of PT students with me in the front." border="0" data-original-height="2525" data-original-width="3428" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHkANaltcBHNjHVSX63-PgfFyZiaYtWMYbjHMk7rYKH8Kuw9FdQBUSRj1Dv-d2s11vrHApxwGpIgnlzNVmYEuEO6AabpfksoEUf-Dx2x3PEfllQxGuAU6ctnKFBgCgHT4zDMR_8zcSnyuQmCBig5YaQfZ2Khb4rH1-S7fhc8bhmYaEVTBeGjZnPlx/w400-h295/St.%20Joes%20PT%20Class.3.22.23.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They're going to change lives!<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>To this amazing group...</p><p>Thank you for listening to my story and asking such thoughtful questions. </p><p>But thanks, most of all, for setting <i>your goals</i> to become physical therapists.</p><p>It's impossible to put into words all the ways my own PTs supported me along this journey. They changed my life. And they were truly my guides -- every step of the way.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCvmolCNfqNDlgRFRJXMtCJ9gRfopyyhZe1IIxp0aay9d4scfDP8S8ItNb4pFcwdry_LJj8MzIz_3aZ2ldAqE61JwmjPrHkVXHxFq0-DQnoMBwyun_m--sEFcX8vWvDGYZ1tqe-WZcN5tOjWujcinKwUHWL4s0uW9Xbn0E0TJzkD1lj7BONYjitSa/s1600/PT%20Colleen.2011.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCvmolCNfqNDlgRFRJXMtCJ9gRfopyyhZe1IIxp0aay9d4scfDP8S8ItNb4pFcwdry_LJj8MzIz_3aZ2ldAqE61JwmjPrHkVXHxFq0-DQnoMBwyun_m--sEFcX8vWvDGYZ1tqe-WZcN5tOjWujcinKwUHWL4s0uW9Xbn0E0TJzkD1lj7BONYjitSa/s320/PT%20Colleen.2011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Including an awesome <u>PT student</u><br />named Colleen!)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I could never have done it without them!</p><p>When I look out at all of you, I envision ALL the future patients who'll achieve <i>their </i>goals because you achieved<i> yours</i>.</p><p>Best of luck with your classes and clinicals. </p><p>I can't wait to see the difference you'll make!</p><p><br /></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-58867436565948511272023-03-21T10:46:00.002-04:002023-03-21T13:39:40.922-04:00Spring Signs (a little poem)<div style="text-align: left;">In Old City<br />spring lights up the trees<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">and fire escapes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk81o7h0pIzmnW90K7B_Qgaw3XY4-26JXtVFTdpaF-GXmQJdhXCsdbUXFC5UvdMSObFBnY2y-0MRNNchf4uMojvY8nAcsmxVe9_wvuJDvbEyEXaWTureqQFr-rvzxIFQg0OCs3NIUePpgnYRDPYVhiXtyXqaQyzIN1YVm2BNw3luPDyZyUBOjOJGBY/s3896/IMG_6800.jpg"><img alt="A city sidewalk, and an iron fire escape the distance, silhouetted by the rising sun." border="0" data-original-height="3896" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk81o7h0pIzmnW90K7B_Qgaw3XY4-26JXtVFTdpaF-GXmQJdhXCsdbUXFC5UvdMSObFBnY2y-0MRNNchf4uMojvY8nAcsmxVe9_wvuJDvbEyEXaWTureqQFr-rvzxIFQg0OCs3NIUePpgnYRDPYVhiXtyXqaQyzIN1YVm2BNw3luPDyZyUBOjOJGBY/w248-h320/IMG_6800.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>And construction zones. </div><div>And moving vans too.</div><div>So watch your step.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's in the hats and gloves<br />and the morning chill<br />as café owners set tables on the sidewalk.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In spring it seems<br />everyone smiles more.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Even this early.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Even on a Tuesday.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And at OCC (my favorite stop), there's a special drink in the air --<br />a <i>violet tea latte</i>,<br />which I'll sample sometime soon</div><div style="text-align: left;">on a warm afternoon.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When you walk the same path every day, </div><div style="text-align: left;">you notice the smallest changes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2NZGpCBD80qutToUIJ4--_bGeQeYUGmpBafnj1vQ3kMJjOgm81tj5rcQVs5oN_q0MRQ-OOaKWjpt-T-l3U-szBo-TmGp5XsKRv8gGLLAJ1fpDyNV65JDCJMFQCUBeDG57uoEU5F_QGwwQHEru5FsVpqgI1-BtslToai8PyLuyvEWH3OdjRBIG0OY/s4032/IMG_6797.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A tree with white buds lit by the early morning sun shining through it." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2NZGpCBD80qutToUIJ4--_bGeQeYUGmpBafnj1vQ3kMJjOgm81tj5rcQVs5oN_q0MRQ-OOaKWjpt-T-l3U-szBo-TmGp5XsKRv8gGLLAJ1fpDyNV65JDCJMFQCUBeDG57uoEU5F_QGwwQHEru5FsVpqgI1-BtslToai8PyLuyvEWH3OdjRBIG0OY/w240-h320/IMG_6797.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are mine.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What subtle signs of spring are on your well-traveled route?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-83309876852779070752023-03-17T17:12:00.006-04:002023-03-18T13:42:57.579-04:00A Garden and A Library<p style="text-align: center;"><i>If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;">-- Marcus Tullius Cicero</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-TARA_oS1JpOOWaxPAQpAeCilbcyK38mq_MTcuNuDb92F2YEJ3QQaKBjPpxREaL2QpAFeZsFezQty4N1FLj8XpsahTQ-SS8qCAOOjQShTH557w0_gndKwuig9h5TXhv9C8FBTvQ5zI8vdxk7-qrB21Q5ehfW4JPRqDTezPE-hzQINxLreHzQ6Al0/s3544/IMG_6722.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A garden of pink, yellow, and purple flowers with a page from a book as the background wall. On the page, it says, "She lost herself within the pages of the story and discovered a garden filled with possibilities."" border="0" data-original-height="2893" data-original-width="3544" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-TARA_oS1JpOOWaxPAQpAeCilbcyK38mq_MTcuNuDb92F2YEJ3QQaKBjPpxREaL2QpAFeZsFezQty4N1FLj8XpsahTQ-SS8qCAOOjQShTH557w0_gndKwuig9h5TXhv9C8FBTvQ5zI8vdxk7-qrB21Q5ehfW4JPRqDTezPE-hzQINxLreHzQ6Al0/w400-h326/IMG_6722.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This week, I had both!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The Philadelphia Flower Show and the Free Library of Philadelphia -- a perfect combination to kick-off the season.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsHAFni_vjgKtqrBumCl2x9fUnQ-F_fms_K_RAic3qh0vO2hp-gKmXl5WX8JIcHEcFrbmQk0ukoC6wI91p0QHIE91vqeTHIgqXSYP0Kkcadq_sUuXo2_Auy_hjWX2RfggKTy_lMpLTGY1Y5MMX-5-TxOw4S5EVgpbLLoulLJtAeTD-hhCC3f-2qpT/s4032/IMG_6702.jpg" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="A shower of plants and colored lights hanging from the ceiling like a huge waterfall chandelier." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsHAFni_vjgKtqrBumCl2x9fUnQ-F_fms_K_RAic3qh0vO2hp-gKmXl5WX8JIcHEcFrbmQk0ukoC6wI91p0QHIE91vqeTHIgqXSYP0Kkcadq_sUuXo2_Auy_hjWX2RfggKTy_lMpLTGY1Y5MMX-5-TxOw4S5EVgpbLLoulLJtAeTD-hhCC3f-2qpT/w300-h400/IMG_6702.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Here in Philly, the Flower Show curtails the end of winter. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTYQuMFxPKuRQVCAlDjd4DypE0KD2jX5j3-fyT0rtzrzeTYFpZ9F9rqmpFBrm1ImDhnUqE6XCqNAOs4V9Ku8dm2LJkHIn00pA-JAxbRkhTNrDH3X2MkNJGUWkKKtgEnRChfbQSN6Q4mPBvfmaEU7RXzTrFTTJTS93j3WhcGrOWaXJOw2COwjxIT_6/s4032/IMG_6706.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A display of mannequins made of flowers, with heads of disco balls. Disco balls also hang in the air above." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTYQuMFxPKuRQVCAlDjd4DypE0KD2jX5j3-fyT0rtzrzeTYFpZ9F9rqmpFBrm1ImDhnUqE6XCqNAOs4V9Ku8dm2LJkHIn00pA-JAxbRkhTNrDH3X2MkNJGUWkKKtgEnRChfbQSN6Q4mPBvfmaEU7RXzTrFTTJTS93j3WhcGrOWaXJOw2COwjxIT_6/w300-h400/IMG_6706.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Even if disco lives on!)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Stepping from the blustery March sidewalk into the warmth of the Convention Center is a sure sign of greener days to come.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAxmML_vRvyxjcmVlQWM2JqhieecA0qm_qfrW10hokS5_Qwrcr-2w6WiTzM-yuRFU-SocEXCIABvWsQDWuMvh7ao-nyKnsN5Mnj0wCas257nlsGYL8rHdBHOeZA--gv4c4TgX0km8fBo-S-QpgFUvlz4p08xFYdnp4xa-MtcqZPkFwmtFzjCibZyK/s4032/IMG_6708.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A lavender colored daisy-like flower with a yellow middle, leaning over a stone wall." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAxmML_vRvyxjcmVlQWM2JqhieecA0qm_qfrW10hokS5_Qwrcr-2w6WiTzM-yuRFU-SocEXCIABvWsQDWuMvh7ao-nyKnsN5Mnj0wCas257nlsGYL8rHdBHOeZA--gv4c4TgX0km8fBo-S-QpgFUvlz4p08xFYdnp4xa-MtcqZPkFwmtFzjCibZyK/w240-h320/IMG_6708.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a rainbow of scent,</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZg-IiZiQnWEWmFvP9R71BrR04Wn_BFjX_6khSWtUcpGQjQV-KgFUdI0vHXyTc95f3xfq9rqMz6YnAbTaxq1j6yVfA2iQ0nf457Nv8cMP0ocEtOoUAD78dXP_d1LL-4o_lMqUDHluX20SZcmLq44IK06daBBOosoo5soKYoe_dlkW0jz7gE80CWeCE/s4032/IMG_6712.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A garden with a painter's easel in the foreground, which holds a painting of the same garden." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZg-IiZiQnWEWmFvP9R71BrR04Wn_BFjX_6khSWtUcpGQjQV-KgFUdI0vHXyTc95f3xfq9rqMz6YnAbTaxq1j6yVfA2iQ0nf457Nv8cMP0ocEtOoUAD78dXP_d1LL-4o_lMqUDHluX20SZcmLq44IK06daBBOosoo5soKYoe_dlkW0jz7gE80CWeCE/w320-h240/IMG_6712.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and color,</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGLHD9s0-zJA_NCmWrZhsVb1F0hTv599mB_JJOZi2axvbm-w2-3xzUgHO0uJCIuNH9emdcURfssO8B26eZRro-V37hsTEr5h7kn_j3js8_8luz6mp6g0PP0NwRp18mJ1FS6_ze1pGFCiEqjXkzzmwmEPfBxWH9bzVi3xBtYDKWyKiDRfP0DnYXd5U/s4032/IMG_6720.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A display of plants and round mirrors in shades of blue and green." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGLHD9s0-zJA_NCmWrZhsVb1F0hTv599mB_JJOZi2axvbm-w2-3xzUgHO0uJCIuNH9emdcURfssO8B26eZRro-V37hsTEr5h7kn_j3js8_8luz6mp6g0PP0NwRp18mJ1FS6_ze1pGFCiEqjXkzzmwmEPfBxWH9bzVi3xBtYDKWyKiDRfP0DnYXd5U/w240-h320/IMG_6720.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and inspiration!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But a library -- isn't that for all-seasons?</p><p>Technically yes. But our local branch is only open limited hours these days. So when I step out of a doctor's appointment which happens to be across the street... </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh206LQeOKLGMOs_JALy1BibBAum1mRbN5T5ORT-c-JW76asfU8WAnJLp9gaAsRLWPKxtDNQHD_2He68PFdTIegcLLFtpym-k29oYWu1rbQ5mt-npE6WzyYAB8Unryt8w4QZSwxDUq3u5RA-mbPTz_6tE7sMWl91yb4PtAWPu_PhqLxo_-ugmIy3cuo/s4032/IMG_6763.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm standing outside the library, holding up a DVD to return!" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh206LQeOKLGMOs_JALy1BibBAum1mRbN5T5ORT-c-JW76asfU8WAnJLp9gaAsRLWPKxtDNQHD_2He68PFdTIegcLLFtpym-k29oYWu1rbQ5mt-npE6WzyYAB8Unryt8w4QZSwxDUq3u5RA-mbPTz_6tE7sMWl91yb4PtAWPu_PhqLxo_-ugmIy3cuo/w240-h320/IMG_6763.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...I hit the "open-hours' jackpot!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I wander through the library stacks the same way I wandered through the Flower Show just days earlier -- awed by the creativity, the variety, and the pure potential in so many volumes (and so many stems!) all in one place. </p><p>I check out a French documentary called <i>Louvre City</i>. Anything about <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2017/04/so-she-did.html" target="_blank">France</a>, like <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2018/09/10-books-that-made-difference.html" target="_blank">reading</a> in general, transports me to a place of <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2012/01/cheating-on-winter.html" target="_blank">hope</a> and renewal!</p><p>Winter into spring is always a tough transition. </p><p>I recently began working with a specialized PT to help with digestive issues. And just today, I started the long process of breaking in a new prosthetic liner. </p><div style="text-align: left;">I'm trying to walk more. <br />Improve my stamina. <br />Get back into shape.</div><p>It's like pushing up through the frozen soil or -- if you're more of a reader than a gardener -- it's like trying to write a novel, one keystroke at a time.</p><p>I finish off the week with a quiche of spring flavors. Fresh herbs? A trip to France?</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSL-oI-Pr8w5oI1I-SpfxRxg4NoG0xjujMYxpR9OhRS7XaTm5uwCGzLcZyaR6tRQW_1mURMdlTPHHxGSSKCTZrXP3tClQeSCwzIltiuclEiQt9lByw7tnmWzGo5Tp4UN68ytO0r789xRvRSngPXJqVrUx5wv0LICq_tEamYN70T5WSMJdDeKiylbf/s3024/IMG_6772.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A quiche with tomato, basil, and fresh mozzarella." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSL-oI-Pr8w5oI1I-SpfxRxg4NoG0xjujMYxpR9OhRS7XaTm5uwCGzLcZyaR6tRQW_1mURMdlTPHHxGSSKCTZrXP3tClQeSCwzIltiuclEiQt9lByw7tnmWzGo5Tp4UN68ytO0r789xRvRSngPXJqVrUx5wv0LICq_tEamYN70T5WSMJdDeKiylbf/w320-h320/IMG_6772.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's like a garden + library in one!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Happy Spring -- and Happy "St. Patti's" Day (as we say in our family)!</p><div style="text-align: left;">May your garden be healthy.<br />May your library be open and full.</div><div style="text-align: left;">May you have everything you need.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And may you walk safely -- even on the windiest of days!</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-43596498535279491302023-03-08T11:36:00.006-05:002023-03-08T16:04:51.575-05:00Art Walk<p style="text-align: left;">Walk 2 blocks.</p><p style="text-align: left;">That's what we did.</p><p style="text-align: left;">We simply walked east instead of west, as we usually do.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Of course, like always, it's not quite as simple as it sounds. To venture off the beaten path -- to walk those 2 blocks east -- involves a downhill slope, a kind of shadowy underpass, and a stretch of sidewalk that's a bit more isolated than I like.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSajYYnNEp9q3RmQIU75tVs7GOt8zzS8hqIvzuhkMaVc_NHYkfo0TlSMp_hZIlB-SLPNW9YayCBedeTo9kHQgTmc939Sw0nl6o181-05sof9FHfOzifO_iXpu_JTgCcNC7HkOsJyDQRPOUqePLFttr5ccXn_LxSYx6rQt1bnj6cbYsyku-ThHlTME8/s4032/Art%20Walk.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="An underpass with a botanical mural along the wall, featuring a white flower in the center surrounded by large green leaves." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSajYYnNEp9q3RmQIU75tVs7GOt8zzS8hqIvzuhkMaVc_NHYkfo0TlSMp_hZIlB-SLPNW9YayCBedeTo9kHQgTmc939Sw0nl6o181-05sof9FHfOzifO_iXpu_JTgCcNC7HkOsJyDQRPOUqePLFttr5ccXn_LxSYx6rQt1bnj6cbYsyku-ThHlTME8/w320-h240/Art%20Walk.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The city has tried to make it more palatable.<br />(And safer!)</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">Technically it's well-lit and filled with car traffic, but for an above-knee amputee like me, walking down here alone still feels vulnerable. I'm more comfortable sticking to my usual route around the neighborhood.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Everything's easier with a friend though. (Thanks walking buddy, Jasmine!)</p><p style="text-align: left;">Before we know it, we emerge onto the sidewalk along the Delaware River. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilp5kmOooNUCmjiJU2vzQnilAbRzS1WGjwidbQ42q2i9fvcxEYd6QCK7Bpt5dd2KUJDvnno4n9Fyi5lBeAmUOyMwqm0uWAJOJbRF90tYhHzicSuwfl6e2E6HtqMYijuxkD-UbRQJMxmHfr-5PB9czivfZZBZdnQhD_F0EYYG2Fi3wYMC8ZANiiEf4/s3024/Art%20Walk.2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A sculpture of metallic spheres against the blue sky. Jasmine and I are mirrored (very tiny) in each sphere." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilp5kmOooNUCmjiJU2vzQnilAbRzS1WGjwidbQ42q2i9fvcxEYd6QCK7Bpt5dd2KUJDvnno4n9Fyi5lBeAmUOyMwqm0uWAJOJbRF90tYhHzicSuwfl6e2E6HtqMYijuxkD-UbRQJMxmHfr-5PB9czivfZZBZdnQhD_F0EYYG2Fi3wYMC8ZANiiEf4/w400-h400/Art%20Walk.2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you see us??</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">There, we're embraced by all kinds of ART!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizhJzFpgsj0uXouHEJKCpWmUKTX1qVu3jMvk3mZBjXNomI8ykNpKZv_jiRZLGGvs2hplHO7GhZ434dm7487cqaVPx3bIkm-vOGpibP5ZTq4_aecb14VHMhH6KDLdg2UX0gt-jiXbS9vIFD7HQw7ghNPbiZz8RcumxTsRxLoF1enE8adtOtnCLKkWj/s4032/Art%20Walk.6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A colorful mural called "Trends of Change" which features a rainbow of colors, banners, and sayings about changes Philadelphians want to see. A few include "Acceptance of everyone," "No guns," "Less homelessness," and "More listening."" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizhJzFpgsj0uXouHEJKCpWmUKTX1qVu3jMvk3mZBjXNomI8ykNpKZv_jiRZLGGvs2hplHO7GhZ434dm7487cqaVPx3bIkm-vOGpibP5ZTq4_aecb14VHMhH6KDLdg2UX0gt-jiXbS9vIFD7HQw7ghNPbiZz8RcumxTsRxLoF1enE8adtOtnCLKkWj/w400-h300/Art%20Walk.6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm especially taken with this piece by<br /><a href="https://www.sanaartista.com/" target="_blank">Becky McIntyre</a> -- and the Philly community!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.cherrystreetpier.com/" target="_blank">Cherry Street Pier</a> is a century-old industrial pier that juts out into the river.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's been rehabbed into a public art space with studios and workshops,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mLav3dbNwf2RY-TeRezxifQjIVKfDoFXWp3whoPPowEn6CwnKRYyUQdBdv3Mx5R-SBM5kl9S5hmTvIncdZti-zjy_tCsj8sDzH2c7MOGHKNoWFVowS7j-o0V91b0hfbhSTyc6Jnj2HRp1uUkbjjK211zN5PJrlC-qCtOdf5uAUFdN7b5zL2EM5Dx/s4032/Art%20Walk.4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The back wall of a deep industrial space, on which is a yellow and orange painting of a man and woman locked in embrace." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mLav3dbNwf2RY-TeRezxifQjIVKfDoFXWp3whoPPowEn6CwnKRYyUQdBdv3Mx5R-SBM5kl9S5hmTvIncdZti-zjy_tCsj8sDzH2c7MOGHKNoWFVowS7j-o0V91b0hfbhSTyc6Jnj2HRp1uUkbjjK211zN5PJrlC-qCtOdf5uAUFdN7b5zL2EM5Dx/w240-h320/Art%20Walk.4.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> rotating exhibits<br />like this one by <a href="https://www.athena-astraea.com/" target="_blank">Athena Astraea</a>,</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktNvd3WMYOLA1LRnS9dz5TLmYFmGdMJePIV5voicbAgHS6ZSz9RKOqjYjOBiJkcyEHcJzqxR9OOwgmX1xYJw6hJLAn1TjQHIX1eYLOsqYGNll4jNYu69L6DI0C6Yq8khXDyVuv2r7tcckAu2DZ-jQkrygFpdSucanurvXThhsHrO6njRDFvWsoUTe/s4032/Art%20Walk.5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A stark industrial pier, that has a tower halfway down, painted with a colorful abstract mural." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktNvd3WMYOLA1LRnS9dz5TLmYFmGdMJePIV5voicbAgHS6ZSz9RKOqjYjOBiJkcyEHcJzqxR9OOwgmX1xYJw6hJLAn1TjQHIX1eYLOsqYGNll4jNYu69L6DI0C6Yq8khXDyVuv2r7tcckAu2DZ-jQkrygFpdSucanurvXThhsHrO6njRDFvWsoUTe/w320-h240/Art%20Walk.5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and murals by local artists.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SmFmkRQt5YoJnWiNJCMX3pKBpihitSzriEJ3y3X2xCXFypkgbSPVnBJXH5cow7cipympv1GpYEi6ORbz3abEza4IJX020Bc5nIKRPf2T0-1d331Ya50IfGD3XSBddLH9D7_nsjJ3XQ8LpVjWlgIfOjbjfai-6zUcKUlsdbDQgaDK6ThBNr3aLfd0/s4032/Art%20Walk.9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The bottom of a bench which is painted with an eye, a heart, and the word YOUS." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SmFmkRQt5YoJnWiNJCMX3pKBpihitSzriEJ3y3X2xCXFypkgbSPVnBJXH5cow7cipympv1GpYEi6ORbz3abEza4IJX020Bc5nIKRPf2T0-1d331Ya50IfGD3XSBddLH9D7_nsjJ3XQ8LpVjWlgIfOjbjfai-6zUcKUlsdbDQgaDK6ThBNr3aLfd0/w240-h320/Art%20Walk.9.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Philly style --<br />"Yous" know what I mean :)</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">I've been to events here before, but it's my first time wandering around for no reason at all.</p><p style="text-align: left;">On this Sunday afternoon, it's quiet and open -- an array of colors, metal, and glass. Art is EVERYWHERE.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWccjKc4wsmwrMyU2enIHi70dI7c4xRctdGpz37rJFAHzw_Ur6J02jRGvQ54GgxMAZiz6iV2WqKogj-y2G3xKv0chJF_vcxiz1hbYWGTIs0_D46zCSTC56oPt6be6xyxyjhCgTyYTFFLzykvcyxB_hxbWJwIp67jkh1cKxLsy7UxR6AXhzlbzITv3/s4032/Art%20Walk.11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The roof of an old stone pier, which is open with metal beams criss-crossing in front of a cloud-filled blue sky." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWccjKc4wsmwrMyU2enIHi70dI7c4xRctdGpz37rJFAHzw_Ur6J02jRGvQ54GgxMAZiz6iV2WqKogj-y2G3xKv0chJF_vcxiz1hbYWGTIs0_D46zCSTC56oPt6be6xyxyjhCgTyYTFFLzykvcyxB_hxbWJwIp67jkh1cKxLsy7UxR6AXhzlbzITv3/w320-h240/Art%20Walk.11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's in the structure and shapes, <br />the well-worn stone, <br />and the deep cerulean sky.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>I recently read this quote by author Gretchen Rubin:</div><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>We can walk into any room and call it a museum.</b></i></p><p style="text-align: left;">I couldn't agree more, but I'd take it one step further...</p><div style="text-align: left;">We can walk <u>out</u> of any room too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To sidewalks<br />and waterfronts</div><div style="text-align: left;">and cityscapes</div><div style="text-align: left;">and community spaces.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU9Jyer3bxCCmWJpVSYQWeOj2f4CfGvhQISi3yV5FoFv0FAglaX1-LNOMF4xmI-TcfjSf-5msubSxS1RoIyW3RSm3Y97BCCAoCwbo5aW172PNc2bVZELF7DEuyQWABmZDbajJB0zrpdNWLtGAOSKa8VTeYFLivPyW0Dmht2ICRKQJgLjs9-1JXDKzi/s4032/Art%20Walk.10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A close up of a light post, with a sticker that reads "You are not alone."" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU9Jyer3bxCCmWJpVSYQWeOj2f4CfGvhQISi3yV5FoFv0FAglaX1-LNOMF4xmI-TcfjSf-5msubSxS1RoIyW3RSm3Y97BCCAoCwbo5aW172PNc2bVZELF7DEuyQWABmZDbajJB0zrpdNWLtGAOSKa8VTeYFLivPyW0Dmht2ICRKQJgLjs9-1JXDKzi/w240-h320/Art%20Walk.10.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You never know what you'll find.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">About a year into the pandemic, I wrote a post called <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2021/03/walk-until-your-day-becomes-interesting.html" target="_blank">Walk Until Your Day Becomes Interesting</a>, inspired by one of my favorite travel writers, <a href="https://rolfpotts.com/" target="_blank">Rolf Potts</a>.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Back then, I was trying to conjure up a new adventure. And though I never quite reached the goal I set out for in that particular post, I still love -- and live by -- this philosophy.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Walks <i>are</i> interesting. Exploration can be its own reward. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Go ahead. Walk 2 blocks. </p><p style="text-align: left;">You don't have to wander far. (I rarely do!)</p><p style="text-align: left;">Just keep your eyes...or ears...or mind... open to whatever you find.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6_C1Zvtn5PFa8atEbQFknhGLmTdakl8-zD1rQc9YFPeJbwVyjwIeP1LPxgDzfLH6YyAdunHekFmp1GOQMIg2IuAIO_RMrB3FFZ3faWNpDqnO4LIcbwQ5m0dV77rdhj024z8lQvmXtgv8GR1H9ebUWne03o57VBMFW1sC4hjLdELZrL8ynyPmX7VF/s4032/Art%20Walk.8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Me, arms extended, standing in front of a heart on a stone wall that says "You made it."" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6_C1Zvtn5PFa8atEbQFknhGLmTdakl8-zD1rQc9YFPeJbwVyjwIeP1LPxgDzfLH6YyAdunHekFmp1GOQMIg2IuAIO_RMrB3FFZ3faWNpDqnO4LIcbwQ5m0dV77rdhj024z8lQvmXtgv8GR1H9ebUWne03o57VBMFW1sC4hjLdELZrL8ynyPmX7VF/w240-h320/Art%20Walk.8.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then, stop and enjoy the view!</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Jodie, I thought of you a thousand times on this walk! Can't wait till we can walk together. xo)</i></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-60927230193214834222023-03-05T21:08:00.010-05:002023-03-06T08:21:26.559-05:00Happy 13th Riley!<p>If you want to measure time and distance, just watch a child grow up.</p><p>In November 2010, when my sister Sam got the call that I'd been critically injured in an accident, she plopped my then 8-month-old niece, Riley, into a car seat and embarked on an unplanned 400-mile road trip from Vermont to Philly. </p><p>In the months that followed, they retraced that trip together many times. </p><p>Riley became quite the seasoned traveler. She even sneaked into the hospital to keep my spirits up.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2MN4CgalAC93lV5y-cqr8tX0aQ4siH_7BI8UUmNq5UBXO-ivB_7WLPtj3dAWw1iYu3C4GqyQLwnN613i2oV5URdSS9U-vIvkZh9HUsyzkaPR6Bl3O5cpcKMkAdDg69slBGznLnJWUho63wI8kjhkbfkkQ4Ew0togYaj3slCl1cekjR-Lq4jVTwyp9/s1280/photo%202%20(3).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="My sister Sam holding Riley by my hospital bed. I'm sitting up smiling." border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2MN4CgalAC93lV5y-cqr8tX0aQ4siH_7BI8UUmNq5UBXO-ivB_7WLPtj3dAWw1iYu3C4GqyQLwnN613i2oV5URdSS9U-vIvkZh9HUsyzkaPR6Bl3O5cpcKMkAdDg69slBGznLnJWUho63wI8kjhkbfkkQ4Ew0togYaj3slCl1cekjR-Lq4jVTwyp9/w240-h320/photo%202%20(3).JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back then, she was nowhere near the minimum visitor age of 13. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TZq5TN3SbOQ5XPoUvthsvTyf4dzo4jhpQcNarO3fQ4EtnlN6wabK3typuW9ypDmiqlj67ZmcgcuyAPQdNz0W-6K3t0XvVH1Hv_FxRQkmOLJvaKDqUAzqyPVf7jKtPTsmepI1KU8E8MQ25f8l5jvlxPA5e21WR5qDocPHDxHafPAp5D-jofzDuO3t/s2816/DSCN4891.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My sister holding baby Riley in front of a sign that says visitors must be 13 or older. Below, my brother wrote a caption "Breaking the law."" border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="2112" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TZq5TN3SbOQ5XPoUvthsvTyf4dzo4jhpQcNarO3fQ4EtnlN6wabK3typuW9ypDmiqlj67ZmcgcuyAPQdNz0W-6K3t0XvVH1Hv_FxRQkmOLJvaKDqUAzqyPVf7jKtPTsmepI1KU8E8MQ25f8l5jvlxPA5e21WR5qDocPHDxHafPAp5D-jofzDuO3t/w240-h320/DSCN4891.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">What a rebel!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>As I made progress, we wondered <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/taking-our-time.html" target="_blank">who'd walk first</a> -- me or Riley.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNNcdMf6HJcN_siLN6S1pLSg3nrzMs1fJO1wR_Fz-zvMlVQQFLGcF3rc2xHZRl0xxQcJdnkkn2OmFXdFj837aQoetCtW3FP1jEzB8aQlYrTmCm8G7kNXIfyqAfErbg79mnIgvbU-09pblNU6DGO8P_IhMx0ANwu38kyLQbMXGcyv-71ARdkN263wy/s2413/DSCN8906.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="I'm holding 15 month old Riley's hand, walking along the sidewalk with my prosthetic." border="0" data-original-height="2413" data-original-width="1605" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNNcdMf6HJcN_siLN6S1pLSg3nrzMs1fJO1wR_Fz-zvMlVQQFLGcF3rc2xHZRl0xxQcJdnkkn2OmFXdFj837aQoetCtW3FP1jEzB8aQlYrTmCm8G7kNXIfyqAfErbg79mnIgvbU-09pblNU6DGO8P_IhMx0ANwu38kyLQbMXGcyv-71ARdkN263wy/w213-h320/DSCN8906.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At <a href="https://my-1000-miles.blogspot.com/2011/07/taking-our-time.html" target="_blank">Mile 15</a>, it was too close to call.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Riley grew up with me as an amputee. </p><p>She was perceptive. No one had to tell her. She just figured it out on her own.</p><p>In preschool, her class learned about the human body. You know how that lesson goes...</p><div style="text-align: left;">Everyone has two eyes,<br />two ears,<br />two arms,<br />two hands...</div><p>But when the teacher got to the part about "two legs," Riley piped up.</p><p>"Not <i>everyone</i> has two legs," she announced. "My aunt only has one."</p><p>The teacher was a bit embarrassed. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO1N0jkObPtNlEQGwLkWuOjct9hMSn-_MknGgy3YKFjJxvRzCiyfRjm-dFXeq5v0D3JKuiD8GheZjuE5JxmE0vlLbPkPHpd6o4rY-lmIc4aiBFqnINAI67-iN9EqYiS1ubZm1pRXrt6maj66dN6Gjsu6yC9fubuknl-gaD86AJwU1miZ1_8b_b5PZW/s4896/DSC02807.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Me and 3 year old Riley, standing in a parking lot, wearing matching bicycle dresses." border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO1N0jkObPtNlEQGwLkWuOjct9hMSn-_MknGgy3YKFjJxvRzCiyfRjm-dFXeq5v0D3JKuiD8GheZjuE5JxmE0vlLbPkPHpd6o4rY-lmIc4aiBFqnINAI67-iN9EqYiS1ubZm1pRXrt6maj66dN6Gjsu6yC9fubuknl-gaD86AJwU1miZ1_8b_b5PZW/w240-h320/DSC02807.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was thrilled. :)</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Today is Riley's birthday. She's 13!</p><p>She is smart and sarcastic and all the things a brand new teenager should be.</p><p>She plays basketball. Wears makeup. Loves hanging out with her friends. </p><p>Shopping is her favorite pastime. (She gets that part from me!)</p><p>At 13, Riley is way cooler than I ever was.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVab73_9yjsG50OfrbMfpAzzyQzcaLZ0QW6voySbBIEQph3cEcjjtB0LalA7YpNzrHQ-QWJygXIGXoyakLyntzmQX4uc2PitJsUBcXNaPojQidmf0IkLGI8wZj8-7FXhRjr76lSr75qr5NjPVZuBmTACrGZ3-Ia6F2N3_J3rjBfkVV5em--j1mqSs9/s1334/IMG_2382.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me and my niece, using a mustache filter from Snapchat." border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVab73_9yjsG50OfrbMfpAzzyQzcaLZ0QW6voySbBIEQph3cEcjjtB0LalA7YpNzrHQ-QWJygXIGXoyakLyntzmQX4uc2PitJsUBcXNaPojQidmf0IkLGI8wZj8-7FXhRjr76lSr75qr5NjPVZuBmTACrGZ3-Ia6F2N3_J3rjBfkVV5em--j1mqSs9/w180-h320/IMG_2382.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I'm just fine with that!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We've crossed<i> a lot</i> of time and distance together. </p><p>I don't think about it everyday. Usually I'm just her aunt. And she's my niece. But once in a while -- on milestone days like today -- I stop and take a look around.</p><p>Watching Riley grow up has been like a measuring stick for my own journey.</p><p>It's amazing to look back at where we've been. </p><p>But it's even more fun to look ahead -- and imagine where we might go.</p><p><br /></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3023650171330174929.post-23740138758097877812023-02-28T15:21:00.025-05:002023-03-01T09:32:45.789-05:00Steppin' Out -- NYC<p>To seek renewal, maybe you'd go to the spa.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWSV8tE_AijCcF856--8mHTP4LLchj42d7liIeEnR5fvSxvOgxOhtejlZFNEdEn7JqPN3FTKAHTTy7VwCZB9vJ8ebSr9elR7pRbDKenhVL5SlQCHpetAzRsn3f4X8nmsrCj5I3pXllwlD96vp56omajjG7YdMJv3hOqWVUhjckbosMoa9MuEPH0x-/s4032/IMG_6633.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A view of a busy NY sidewalk from under scaffolding, with lights from the buildings including Radio City Music Hall ahead." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWSV8tE_AijCcF856--8mHTP4LLchj42d7liIeEnR5fvSxvOgxOhtejlZFNEdEn7JqPN3FTKAHTTy7VwCZB9vJ8ebSr9elR7pRbDKenhVL5SlQCHpetAzRsn3f4X8nmsrCj5I3pXllwlD96vp56omajjG7YdMJv3hOqWVUhjckbosMoa9MuEPH0x-/w300-h400/IMG_6633.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm in New York City!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Really, this is better than a massage table, where I'd be lying with my eyes closed, dwelling on health issues and uncertainties, and all the things I <i>should</i> be doing (but can't quite manage) to keep pace with "normal" life. </p><p>Better to be stepping out here -- onto this crazy-busy sidewalk -- nearly galloping to keep pace with my good friend Elaine, who's surprisingly city-wise for someone from Idaho!</p><div style="text-align: left;">We dodge traffic and people,<br />step on and off curbs, </div><div style="text-align: left;">and in and out of elevators.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We catch the lights</div><div style="text-align: left;">as we catch up on conversation.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's invigorating</div><div style="text-align: left;">and exciting</div><div style="text-align: left;">and exhilarating</div><div style="text-align: left;">and exhausting (in all the best ways!).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixd2EU4qCQGpg4435gPCrC-GQ7vYDVwC-sSb2PwRjCR_81Op14kLSjch78OYmZMTn2ghuOxsKZvd92NXjW785ijgLNmN5ofkTLULhq28xTDCtJ8lrkzM76ZPpHQCGuwfnX_441_AQ4q49egpqhY-otdGFGG1m-NA-W4Nun-D3W2JbnsE4080VrMxp5/s3356/IMG_6628.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The Museum of Modern Art, with a rainbow painting hanging on a white wall, people in bright colors scattered below, and a stairwell above, with a single woman ascending." border="0" data-original-height="3356" data-original-width="2543" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixd2EU4qCQGpg4435gPCrC-GQ7vYDVwC-sSb2PwRjCR_81Op14kLSjch78OYmZMTn2ghuOxsKZvd92NXjW785ijgLNmN5ofkTLULhq28xTDCtJ8lrkzM76ZPpHQCGuwfnX_441_AQ4q49egpqhY-otdGFGG1m-NA-W4Nun-D3W2JbnsE4080VrMxp5/w242-h320/IMG_6628.jpg" width="242" /></a></div></div><p>At <a href="https://www.moma.org/" target="_blank">MoMA</a>, we hunt down the original <i>Starry Night.</i></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCPw_lmZFKxZPQdsMkVGt0l2UnQDap2YFG0vAXOViShkSGNx9ureEvkyPF-uWsSMfEsKx4VwICq22MwVaudsGhvxz9QufVvmO5Nu-D1L-jVkWVp-YBobgMKb0MM9eOA8ZazOf83xTCySLn6i3SNqxM_YlrPLoJl-LpxEMEU0HiDE8DopmZ1g4XhOb/s4032/IMG_6623.jpg"><img alt="My friend Elaine, smiling with excitement, next to the painting of Van Gogh's Starry Night." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCPw_lmZFKxZPQdsMkVGt0l2UnQDap2YFG0vAXOViShkSGNx9ureEvkyPF-uWsSMfEsKx4VwICq22MwVaudsGhvxz9QufVvmO5Nu-D1L-jVkWVp-YBobgMKb0MM9eOA8ZazOf83xTCySLn6i3SNqxM_YlrPLoJl-LpxEMEU0HiDE8DopmZ1g4XhOb/w320-h240/IMG_6623.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>At <a href="https://www.chelseamarket.com/" target="_blank">Chelsea Market</a>, we stalk an Israeli food stand till it opens.</p><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17nGUi5jyEstFwIZySyJFH7uIqUvL9HlMc5vuFvZVk6-EVnY_cUwVKDqt12IsP7vB5TvJGF2-YSDQaVOK41E1JrbTuCiPHU06ELWuRAKocAWvvcSZvUYgaKISbYu0iP8uiJVHaGM_eg6X7RP9VaHEgNAct-rf-Ka8v_Ld2lVzV-YUfKqLsfaRTMNf/s4032/IMG_6620.jpg"><img alt="Me, sitting at a wooden table, holding a coffee cup, with an Israeli food spread (pita, cauliflower) in front of me." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17nGUi5jyEstFwIZySyJFH7uIqUvL9HlMc5vuFvZVk6-EVnY_cUwVKDqt12IsP7vB5TvJGF2-YSDQaVOK41E1JrbTuCiPHU06ELWuRAKocAWvvcSZvUYgaKISbYu0iP8uiJVHaGM_eg6X7RP9VaHEgNAct-rf-Ka8v_Ld2lVzV-YUfKqLsfaRTMNf/w240-h320/IMG_6620.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>At the <a href="https://www.strandbooks.com/" target="_blank">Strand</a>, we get lost in the stacks.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7kS5k-Lxz3LKat-vQx0RhGK-_tWG2854nStyDSv24P4LHfYoCohjuzLVAyp8T95zfebE9Fv0_e-3zigmMG6abIgSodTbgXT70OFUjrCrUoy5cRykDMRmRrIfgm_OU5YsfHt-R6WRb6uq4T1nlslS5JCe1FA73G5O7M09wFSV1FpmGxqqotrvEliu/s3088/IMG_6650.jpg"><img alt="A selfie of me and Elaine, smiling, outside the red awning of Strand Bookstore." border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7kS5k-Lxz3LKat-vQx0RhGK-_tWG2854nStyDSv24P4LHfYoCohjuzLVAyp8T95zfebE9Fv0_e-3zigmMG6abIgSodTbgXT70OFUjrCrUoy5cRykDMRmRrIfgm_OU5YsfHt-R6WRb6uq4T1nlslS5JCe1FA73G5O7M09wFSV1FpmGxqqotrvEliu/w320-h240/IMG_6650.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Then, on the way back to the train station, we stumble onto this spot...</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBjDKcaGAdRzWbkqGQnOEoYR7EEmTo0XkLLPVo7aHeLkERsiYamgdS99ezGXKTVNOHn8skt5y-c85Dnhy3xFwW4-pd-8967Sr5T0hhfSfeMIFsOy1fWZ7DLL2S7qUqIoQfrb1rrqLJpRFnJe9WyvEEOOqdsVKyjxNPOuZ2l2UNlUQGJf4R1p6Ig7V/s4032/IMG_6652.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A patch of sidewalk that says in chalk, "Screaming Spot."" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBjDKcaGAdRzWbkqGQnOEoYR7EEmTo0XkLLPVo7aHeLkERsiYamgdS99ezGXKTVNOHn8skt5y-c85Dnhy3xFwW4-pd-8967Sr5T0hhfSfeMIFsOy1fWZ7DLL2S7qUqIoQfrb1rrqLJpRFnJe9WyvEEOOqdsVKyjxNPOuZ2l2UNlUQGJf4R1p6Ig7V/w320-h240/IMG_6652.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...Oh YES, we do!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p><br /></p><p>New York City is only 2 hours from Philly. </p><p>But for me, it doesn't feel like an easy journey. It's been years since I've traveled anywhere, especially on my own.</p><p>The night before, I reduce what I'll have to carry -- discarding extra clothes in favor of crutches and emergency items for any "body breakdown" I can imagine. (And then, in imagining those breakdowns, I almost cancel the trip!)</p><p>On the way there, I obsess about sitting on metal benches at the train station and climbing in and out of cabs, obstacles that can disrupt even the best of leg days.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ew3KKAqh8CCRIU_3T0S1ShE2k7HfjFQmNs9QYgoCp8KsuO_nEj7iHYG5yt7bUkejneuvTi54xE5CbOgoVBBDuFIaafN5Tm6atannCUvPa5Jbc39dY4-13dSgDtNJ7QXlGMAv1QMdBuyWOeeu9GQIhlwbGkDu6BLyE6FQJS6NYHaQjQZh-SDQ7d8a/s3088/IMG_6614.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A selfie of me, wearing a mask, looking anxious on a metal bench at the Hamilton NJ train station." border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ew3KKAqh8CCRIU_3T0S1ShE2k7HfjFQmNs9QYgoCp8KsuO_nEj7iHYG5yt7bUkejneuvTi54xE5CbOgoVBBDuFIaafN5Tm6atannCUvPa5Jbc39dY4-13dSgDtNJ7QXlGMAv1QMdBuyWOeeu9GQIhlwbGkDu6BLyE6FQJS6NYHaQjQZh-SDQ7d8a/w320-h240/IMG_6614.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the weight of worry, <br />it's a wonder I go anywhere at all!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But when I finally meet up with Elaine, those concerns fade into the backdrop of city noise.</p><p>Elaine keeps me in the moment.<i> </i>She approaches challenge with curiosity. She takes travel adventures (and mishaps!) in stride. We've known each other a long time, and it's just so FUN to be together again.</p><p>I can't keep this pace forever, but for 24 hours, it's worth a try!</p><p>At the Strand, we both find books that call to us.</p><p>For me, it's a book of photography by <a href="https://vivienne-gucwa.pixels.com/" target="_blank">Vivienne Gucwa</a>, a NYC resident who, back in 2009, began walking the city as a way to deal with stress, and along the way, found renewal through the lens of her camera. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibF-FtmKdcoIIE1nQjotTYupPWsB9fOnOUtdS8plYe0TABdJhqJQ8J4LRvEbBCMLg2uwkoIFALFLF_Rov827stPRAV0oaPf80ikDs651Nlo21kOIO8UCorTaOEyMCGRWmIWFtxyUfInSdQohRLRTjljigCRvnlSoHyupjVBIFFDb4VqEHsifzdLlrk/s4032/IMG_6653.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The bookcover of "NY through the Lens" above a bag from the Strand, sitting on my lap on the train." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibF-FtmKdcoIIE1nQjotTYupPWsB9fOnOUtdS8plYe0TABdJhqJQ8J4LRvEbBCMLg2uwkoIFALFLF_Rov827stPRAV0oaPf80ikDs651Nlo21kOIO8UCorTaOEyMCGRWmIWFtxyUfInSdQohRLRTjljigCRvnlSoHyupjVBIFFDb4VqEHsifzdLlrk/w240-h320/IMG_6653.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the train ride home, <br />her words and images resonate with me.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This little trip helps me dust off some of my own "lenses" too -- ones I'd almost forgotten I had.</p><div style="text-align: left;">The harnessing of courage. </div><div style="text-align: left;">The joy of taking risks.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The irreplaceable comfort of friendship.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYwv6-p-GhoeRJs4ohZchdXKIlxzCF-w_J4-M8Ei6O8e50_hWfzomTGUmfuiGLfqf1bj5ueKNZQ3Pk_qGHNBj0pkghbg5iDmosURt2Vk7b1xTWkjE4WPaLv-NdNguIq9p0ODT9uWtK1AeM_oCv1ai9_EytrcLwVhhdsS-AeTFlF2ecn-CSwMwuyr2/s3088/IMG_6636.jpg"><img alt="A selfie of me and Elaine holding coffee cups with a funny cartoon "grumpy" face on the wall behind us." border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYwv6-p-GhoeRJs4ohZchdXKIlxzCF-w_J4-M8Ei6O8e50_hWfzomTGUmfuiGLfqf1bj5ueKNZQ3Pk_qGHNBj0pkghbg5iDmosURt2Vk7b1xTWkjE4WPaLv-NdNguIq9p0ODT9uWtK1AeM_oCv1ai9_EytrcLwVhhdsS-AeTFlF2ecn-CSwMwuyr2/w240-h320/IMG_6636.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And the pure, life-changing power of steppin' out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837248029569317654noreply@blogger.com5