Bright Umbrellas in the Rain

A rainy wave from Mile Marker 13,898...

I get home from work exhausted, just as the rain begins.

I drop my lunchbag in the kitchen, my backpack on the dining room chair.  

I limp into the bedroom.  Contemplate lowering the shades.  The sky is dark already.  Can the neighbors see in?  But I'm too tired even to make that decision.

Instead, I leave the overhead lights off.  
Strip off my work clothes.  
Slide on an Old Navy tee-shirt.  

Then I sit on the edge of my bed and -- Ahhhh! -- finally pop the vacuum seal on my prosthesis and peel off the sweat-soaked liner.  Sweet relief.

I am glad it is raining.
I needed an early sunset.

These long days of summer wear me down.

Summer feels noisy, with its trash-strewn sidewalks, weird smells, and steamy steps through endless construction zones.  

It makes my body noisy too: sweaty skin, slipping prosthetic liner, slashes of nerve pain.

Each day, I start out fresh -- and end up exhausted.

But sleeping is a reset.  
And I feel better the next morning.

Today, when I turn on my laptop, this pic fills the screen.

It's me.  In the rain.  In Paris!

I remember that week in 2023, when a lunchtime downpour caught me and others at an outdoor café covered only by tiki umbrellas.  

I laughed with the Australians at the next table as water poured off our makeshift rooftops.  If it weren't for the cobblestones and croque-madames, we could have been on a waterfall hike together, instead of a Parisian sidewalk.

I stare at the photo now, at my bright umbrella, electric in the rain.

It was a gift from my mom just before the trip, and I loved it immediately.  

It reminded me of Paris -- and hope -- the maillot jaune of my own Tour de France.

Every day that week, it rained on and off, torrential and soaking, with small breaks of sunshine.  I ran out of dry shoes and sloshed around in my wet ones.

But my umbrella wasn't the only bright spot.  For a city of muted colors, Paris was flooded with bright umbrellas.

Rain makes Paris shimmer.

I'm smiling in that photo, but I remember, too, that it wasn't the best "leg day."  

I had just descended a narrow, twisty flight of stairs to refit my prosthesis in a humid restaurant bathroom.  It was already slipping off again, and I still had a long walk back to the Métro.  

But I'd also just finished the Paris Writing Workshop!  

I had learned to navigate the city and -- through that struggle -- felt like I was part of it.

I'm smiling because, at that moment, I wished for nothing better than a Paris rainstorm.

Here, at Mile 13,898, the rain outside my window reminds me of that feeling.

I stand in my dim bedroom, taking one breath.  

And then another.

My leg is dry again, refitted (for the moment) well enough to stand and make dinner. 

I've written about the rain before -- at Mile 255, and 610, and 733, and probably others.  Each time, it has meant something different to my journey.

But tonight, I accept it for exactly what it is.

A chance to wear pajamas.

Read my friend Wendy's writing.  
Call my mom.  
Wash the dishes.  
Get ready for bed.

A chance to wipe the day clean.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Expect the Unexpected

Hello from Mile 13,890 at Jefferson University!

After sharing my story with these wonderful first-year medical students, the unexpected happened.

I almost fell.

Almost -- because a quick-thinking young woman in a brand-new white coat stepped in and caught me.

I stumbled backwards onto my prosthetic leg, and for some reason it buckled.  With a microprocessor knee like mine, that doesn't usually happen.  I stumble sometimes, but I expect it to catch me.

This time, something went wrong. 

I didn't expect the unexpected. I lost my balance and couldn't regain it.  

I was in free fall.  

It felt dramatic.  
And long.

Then that student grabbed my arm.  

And what we all thought was about to happen... didn't.

It must have looked like some kind of "trust" game.  I wobbled -- nearly toppled -- and she caught me, and we laughed it off.  

We went on talking.  The class ended.  The students filed out.   

Only now, hours later, my mind dwells on what could have happened.

I could have hit my head on the nearby desk.
I could have landed on my newly rehabbed shoulder.
I could have damaged my right leg.
I could have sustained a serious injury like when I fell in 2023.
I could have ended up in the hospital.

Day to day, I am a confident walker.  I focus on footwork, but more times than not, I forget how vulnerable I am -- how one false move, one slip of balance, one lapse in concentration could lead to months of immobility.

A PT friend once told me, "walking is a series of controlled falls."  

Not just for amputees, he meant, but for all humans.  It's what happens when we walk upright.  If our bodies work correctly, we take biomechanics for granted.

After today, I've got a new spin on this idea.

I think LIFE is a series of controlled falls.

Most of the time, it goes as planned.  How often do we drive to work?  Cross a street?  Arrive home safely?  

But in the unexpected moments, everything can change.  (That's pretty much the gist of my journey.)

So... Did you stay off the ground today?

Yes?  Consider it a win. :)

Heartfelt thanks to this wonderful group -- and especially to the student who hopped into action. Your future patients will appreciate your instinct and quick reflexes.  

I know I do!

Welcome to Jefferson, Class of 2029!  You're already making a difference.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Capturing A Moment in Time

The desire to capture a moment in time has always been part of my nature...

So began my college essay, typed on a typewriter, back when there was no such thing as a Universal App, only blanks to fill in on dozens of pages, carefully unstapled and imperfectly aligned under the paper bail.  

(I looked it up -- that's the name of that silver roller bar!)

My dad photocopied the applications at his office so I could do rough drafts.  Because once you started typing, the pressure was on.  There was no going back.

Greetings from 1987, where everything was analog.  

Except maybe the VCR.

Ten years before that -- on my 8th birthday -- I got an instamatic camera with 4 flashcubes and a roll of film scrolled up like a tiny Torah.  

Cue the Fotomat envelopes -- every 12 or 24 snaps -- stuffed and sealed and mailed at my dad's office.  

Like magic, my photos "came back."

They were trendy, really --
Squared edges and faded hues,
decades before Instagram!

By the end of 8th grade, I'd earned enough babysitting money to buy myself a real camera.  

35 millimeter.  $199.  Ordered from New York City through the mail!

For 2 decades, that Nikon FG dangled around my neck.

It was almost as big as I was!

Fast forward many more years and miles.

Now, like most people, I carry a do-it-all iPhone, but my desire to capture a moment in time is still firmly grounded.  

In analog.

I'm a collector of moments.  The kind you can hold in your hands.

Just ask my travel buddies, who roll their eyes at the growing pile of sugar packets, candy wrappers, napkins, ticket stubs, brochures, and receipts on every trip we take.  

I can't help it.  

To me, "found souvenirs" capture the journey better than any keychain or magnet!

But what do you do with all that stuff once you get home?

At Mile 13,853, I try making a zine.

What's a zine?
A handmade magazine of storytelling + collage,
two of my favorite things!

I learned about zine-making at a workshop at Elfreth's Alley, in my neighborhood.  

But my memory of zines stretches back much farther.

In college, my friend Chip created one.  He wrote the content, patched it together with scissors and glue, and Xeroxed copies the old-school way at Kinko's.

Zines are still self-published and old-school, but it seems they're making a comeback.

Some bookstores have shelves for them.  There's even a Zine Library in Philly.  (Haven't been there yet, but it's on my list!)

I'm a beginner though, so this one's just for me.

I gather up scraps from my April weekend in London, print a few pics, and pull some key words from my journal.  I uncap a glue stick.

In an hour or two, I wrangle them into a pocket-sized reader.  

Have a look!

Cheerio!

Notting Hill landmarks

Yogurt and buses and tea, oh my!

Mushy peas?  Yay or nay?
(I say YAY!)

Chatting up one of the
King's bodyguards...

...and yes, the Crown Jewels gave me a migraine.  
(Seriously!)

Zines are small but mighty.  

A single page can recount the lifetime journey of a Romanian leather-maker named Yanos, a clever rhyme we learned about the Thames*, and a chance meeting with friend-of-a-friend flight attendant Stacey!

Small world!

*The end of the rhyme.
It's a joke -- get it? :)

Sure, we need digital to keep up with today's breakneck pace.

But scissors, scraps, and gluesticky fingers bring me back to my old self.

1980's style!

How do you capture the moments?

Walk on,
Rebecca

Jar of Stones

Greetings from the Schuylkill Expressway.  

At Mile 13,810, I've never been happier to be speeding toward that Philadelphia skyline.

It's been a tough travel weekend.

I could show you the highlight reel...

The Chelsea Flea Market
with the best sister ever!

A wild game of UNO with my favorite threesome.

A one-pound baby goat named Onyx.

And an evening stroll
through sleepy Montpelier.

Those were good moments -- fresh air, farm life, family fun -- and I wouldn't trade them for not going at all. 

My mom and I have done this roadtrip dozens of times.  We've learned to love its rhythm and pick the best rest stops along the way.

But this time felt different.  I was preoccupied; my body, more demanding.  

A lowlight reel unspooled, like static, beneath it all.

Was it the weather?  The food?  The terrain?  Too much time in the car?

It's challenging to manage my health at home and harder away from home.  Always.  

I know this already -- I've learned to expect it -- but this trip was sort of a tipping point.

There were no emergencies, no hospital visits (thank goodness!).  It was just my body being my body.  Disability stuff.  Health stuff.   A bit louder than usual.

You know that analogy of stones in a jar?

It goes like this:

If life is a jar, we should fill it with big stones first -- the most important, most necessary things -- and let the smaller pebbles and grains of sand -- the less important things -- fall in between.

In theory, I like it.  It's about priortizing what's most important. 

It's the reason I drive 8 hours to see my nieces and nephew (even if my body doesn't love the plan).

And there lies my issue.  Or more precisely, my jar...

The biggest stones are difficult to fit.  Some lurk down at the bottom -- taking up space and clogging things up -- and sometimes they grow larger without warning.  

Everything else, no matter how much I love it, gets piled on top.  

And sometimes the jar overflows.

I yearn to move freely -- to be 100% in the moment wherever I am -- to float to the top and leave the distractions of my body behind.  

That's not always easy.

When the Philly skyline comes into view, I am flooded with relief.  It bubbles up and runs down the sides of my jar.  

I let it.

I am just minutes from home -- a place where I can revel in routine, regenerate my body, and (hopefully) recalculate an easier route for the next journey.

Because yes, of course, I'll take it.

What's in your jar?

Walk on,
Rebecca

P.S. While writing this postcard, I heard the latest episode of Kate Bowler's podcast, 'Everything Happens.'  It spoke to me.  If your jar is feeling a bit too full this summer, perhaps it'll speak to you too.  Listen here.

A Postcard from Above

 Happy 4th from Mile 13,790... 

... 3 stories up!

A couple passes on the sidewalk below.

My friends and I call them "The Nines."

They're in freshly-pressed whites -- she, a collared dress; he, a tee with dark jeans -- and matching straw hats.  They look good, as always.  

Dressed to the.... Well, you get the idea. :)

A blue Prius drives by, then a red Accord.  Both have the soft hum of electric engines which I've heard are just a sound effect for safety, yet always unnerve me.  They sound sneaky, like the breath of Darth Vader.

To the south, an airplane buzzes toward the airport.
To the north, a train rumbles over the Ben Franklin Bridge.

I'm up here on my balcony perch, observing it all.

I could venture out, explore the festivities.  

And maybe I should, but I know what my body needs.  

Tomorrow I'm driving to Virginia to see my friend Amy.  And Rule #1 of Adaptive Travel (at least for me) is "Pace yourself."

So I watch from above as icy Starbucks drinks bob along the sidewalk below.

"Aaah-oooo!"  A loud sneeze echoes off the buildings, so forceful it drops the "ch" all together.

"Daddy, you scared me!" says a small voice.

It belongs to a girl in a one-piece sunsuit, the kind I grew up wearing in the 70's.  It's blue and white gingham, buttoned at the shoulders, with red roses sprinked across the crinkly fabric.  She skips ahead to take her dad's hand.  

Cars clink over the manhole cover.
Bikes pass silently in the bikelane.

I watch people walk.  Always.

There are long legs,
bow legs,
short shorts,

swishy sundresses,
Crocs,

Birkenstocks, 

Hokas.

Me?

I watch from above with one shoe off and one shoe on.  (The prosthetic foot doesn't get hot!)

Since early this morning, I've been thinking about people, here and around the world, who don't have independence -- or won't in the days ahead.  

I often feel my own independence is tied to ability -- or disability.

But that's really just a small part of it.

Independence is like quality of life.  It's the freedom to make our own decisions, to write and speak and live in peace, to maximize our health, to safely access what we need.

Today, from up here, I'm grateful to have it all.

Happy 4th!

Walk on,

Rebecca

Sunflowers

Hello from Mile Marker 13,772 at Substack!

I feel like a stranger in a strange land here, but lucky for me, I've got a wondeful guide.  Fellow writer Gabrielle Kaplan-Mayer has a beautiful Substack called Journey with the Seasons, and she asked me if I'd write a guest post.

At her Summer Solstice Writing Circle last week, a 4-minute prompt planted the seed for this story.  I'm so grateful to share it with you.

Some walks shine brighter with time.  To me, this is one of them.  

Just click on the sunflowers below. :)

Thanks for walking (and reading) with me!
Rebecca

My first Substack piece! Thank you so much @Gabrielle Ariella Kaplan-Mayer for planting the seed for this story and spreading its light!

- Rebecca Levenberg

Read on Substack

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