Dancing Queen?

I’m on the makeshift stage of a bookstore — 3,000 miles from home — singing along to “Dancing Queen” with 15 of my newest friends.

Also, it’s 10 PM.

I don’t do evening activities. I can’t carry a tune. And I definitely don’t dance.

To be perfectly honest, I was planning to skip karaoke. When I saw it on the schedule, I didn’t give a single thought to going.

It was the last night of the Book Passage Travel Writers and Photographers Conference, and part of me didn’t want to miss a moment.

But another part — the physical, practical, protective part — knew my story better. By evening, my body gets the best of me. Doing too much can push me into overload. I need time to rest, unwind, and take my leg off.

And so, when the last workshop ended, I slipped out the back door of the bookstore to walk to the hotel.

Before I settled in, I needed to refill my water bottle. In the glow of the hotel courtyard, I passed by the pool and headed to the fitness center, where there was a cold water fill-up station.

That’s when I heard it. A voice from above...

Progress Isn't Pass/Fail

Hello from Mile Marker 14,432...

It's been a while, I know.  So how to restart??

One, two, three, GO!

That's how I get out the door these days.

You have to start somewhere.  And otherwise, I'll sit there for hours, trying to get my socket "just right."  

Lately, there is no "just right."  There's only better and worse.  (At least prosthetically-speaking...)

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...

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.... 

Adaptive Travel Tip: Choose "right-size" adventures

Travel isn't one-size-fits-all.

I don't know about you, but travel pushes my body into overload.

I walk more than usual, eat different foods, get less rest, carry more than my share of emergency supplies (see this tip!), and -- like even the most able-bodied traveler -- face weather and time changes.

Keeping pace, while keeping my body on an even keel, can be challenging!

Luckily, travel comes in many sizes...

Adaptive Travel Tip: Use trekking poles... sometimes!

Ability and disability can vary day-to-day and moment-to-moment.  

So using an assistive device isn't an "all or nothing" decision...

Adaptive Travel Tips from 13,500 Miles - Even the Smallest Steps Count

This was travel...

... BEFORE.

The summer before the accident, I did a home exchange with a family from Bordeaux, France.  

And the year before that, I exchanged with a family from Provence.  

It was the perfect way to travel.  I could go solo, live in someone's house, hop on their bicycle, and explore the world like a local.  

I was convinced it was how I'd travel for the rest my life...

Happy 14th Walking Day!

Stepping into Mile 13,354...

Today marks 14 years since I took my first steps on a prosthetic leg!

You might not remember your first steps, but when you take them a second time around, you remember everything.

I can still hear prosthetist Tim telling me, "Small with the left.  Big with the right."  (Above-knee amputees tend to take an exaggerated step with their prosthetic side.)

I can still hear him say, "Great.  That was great."   (Those words filled me with hope and joy!)

On the night of February 11, 2011, my family and I crowded around the kitchen table to watch that grainy video a thousand times on my laptop!

I knew back then I would never take walking for granted.

It's still true. 

I walk around the block every morning.  
I walk the hospital corridors at work. 
I walk around the kitchen while I'm making dinner.  
I walk in the grocery store.  
I walk on sidewalks, and across streets, and (carefully) over cobblestones.  

The gift of walking never wears off.

But 13,354 miles -- and 14 years -- is a long way from that starting line.  By the time I realize today is "Walking Day," it's mid-afternoon and snow is on the way.

Ugh.  I don't walk in snow, even after 14 years.

So I head to the gym and hop on my favorite treadmill, which offers virtual "walks" in several countries.

No problem.  I'll walk in Singapore!

It's a beautiful walking day there.  Sun reflects off the buildings.  The trees are tropical green.  The path is paved and clean.  

In my earbuds, I turn on an episode of Deviate with Rolf Potts.  He's interviewing Rick Steves about his newest book, On the Hippie Trail, a journal of his 1970's trip from Istanbul to Kathmandu as a 23-year-old.

I'm walking with my two favorite travel writers!  What better way to celebrate the day?

Walking through Singapore reminds me of my friend and fellow writer Sameer, who lives there with his family.  I met Sameer at Rolf Potts's Paris Writing Workshop in 2023.  

And thinking about that trip to Paris reminds me how far I've come.

(That's Sameer on my right!)

When I took my first steps back in 2011, I thought I'd never travel again -- at least not like I did before the accident.

In a sense, that was true. 

I travel differently now, adapting in ways I couldn't yet imagine.

The path in Singapore curves through a shady area.   I walk past signposts, trash cans, spotlights, and call boxes while Rick Steves talks about depending on fellow travelers for directions and information.

 

Wayfinding. 

I don't know why that particular word comes to mind, but it seems especially meaningful today.

I think about my doctors, nurses, and rehab therapists.  Prosthetist Tim and his amazing team.

The friends, old and new, who've helped me march on.  My family who's there for me -- always.

They are my Wayfinders.  I'd be lost without them.

It's not the best "leg day," but it's not the worst either.  I wait to feel the familiar slip of my prosthetic socket, its rub on my skin, or the tiny leak of air that tells me my steps have expired.

I keep walking, longer than I usually do.  

Farther than I think I can. 

(Not that far.  But far for me!)

Finally, my right foot starts aching.  I want to keep going, but I have to stop.  I've learned, in 14 years, to listen to my body and respect its needs.

The path opens up to a harbor filled with bobbing, gleaming yachts.  I focus on that watery horizon.  

And press STOP.

Outside the gym, the first snowflakes swirl beneath the streetlights.  In my earbuds, Rick Steves reaches Kathmandu.  On the screen, Singapore disappears.

I stand there on the treadmill, catching my breath.  Grateful for all these steps.

I could go anywhere, I think.  Anywhere at all.

Happy Walking Day,

Rebecca

 

P.S.  You can read about past "Walking Days" at Mile 335, Mile 930, Mile 2,525  Mile 3,660 and here too!

Why Adaptive Travel?

Hello from Mile Marker 13,345...

Picture this:  Two adaptive travelers are planning a trip together. 

Wait, you don't have to.  Here's a photo.

It was January 2023, and my friend Mona and I had just booked airline tickets for a nine-day trip to Paris! 

We were excited!
(Who cares that the trip was still 7 months away?)

By our sky-high smiles, you might not detect the deliberations we poured into those plans: 

The length of the trip, 

time of the flights, 

disability services at the airport, 

the seats we'd need on the plane. 

We considered packing, pressure changes, legroom, "leg time," and what it would be like for our bodies to be crunched in a seat for 8 hours straight.  (Not to mention the recovery time we'd need at either end!)

Travel is different, and often difficult, with a disability.  But it's also a priviledge, brimming with possibility.

We saw both sides -- and couldn't wait to take that leap!

 

Recently, I was invited to speak with Wilmington Christiana Care's Amputee Education Group.  

It was my FIRST EVER presentation about Adaptive Travel!

I spent a month creating the content and much longer thinking about it.   

You could say I'd been working on it since my very first trip as an amputee.

That was Mile 21, a road trip to Maine
where I got by with A LOT of help from my friends!

 

I started the workshop with some ways to think about travel and what we bring with us -- our individual strengths and struggles, and how they might play out when we're away from home.  

When we travel, we can adapt ourselves, but we can also adapt our environment.  

Who are YOU as a traveler?  

What do you want -- and need -- along the way? 

It's only afterward, that I decide to do this exercise for myself.

(Go ahead.  It's fun to try!)

As a traveler, I'm ______. 

curious.  
resourceful.  
open-minded.  
optimistic.  

I like to laugh, talk to locals, and observe "everyday life" wherever I am.

I love to learn, especially about other cultures
like at this Danish pastry class!

Before my injuries, I traveled solo.

Now I take friends.

I want to do everything, but I need to be selective.  I have to prioritize mobility, comfort, rest, and digestion.  

(It's a delicate balance, one I often neglect!)

I've found some success...

But it's rarely stressless or pain-free.  

My needs outweigh my wants wherever I am.  

Take prosthetic fit, for example -- and the neverending struggle to manage it!

I can walk, but not too far.  

I can stand, but not too long.

I can sit, but not in every seat.

I make mistakes, often the same ones, over and over again...

Adaptability isn't the same as accessibility.  

Being adaptive can't remove all barriers.  Some needs are nonnegotiable.  

We might require elevators, ramps, wider doorways, shower seats, assistive devices, screen readers, closed captions, caregivers, or other accommodations.

But travel goes beyond the physical. 

 

It's a mindset too.

One we can adopt wherever we are!

Here's a secret:  For a budding travel writer, I don't actually travel much.

But seeing myself as a traveler changes the way I experience home too.  

On a morning walk, I pick up patterns on buildings, catch crumbs of conversation, and marvel at the myriad of winter coats worn by dogs.  

I take advantage of opportunities:  sign up for classes, taste new foods, read books, watch movies, and reach out to faraway friends.

Being an adaptive traveler isn't just about where you go, it's about how.  It empowers us to explore, even in our own neighborhood!

My travel-buddy Mona is not just adaptive.  She's wise too. 

Before we embarked on that trip together, she said something that's always stuck with me.  I'll paraphrase it here:

There's no scenerio where I'll be able to travel without my disability.  So if I want to go, I'll have to travel with it.

Merci Mona! 
Tu es très sage!

We shape our experiences.  And our experiences shape us.

That's the why of Adaptive Travel.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  If you or your group wants to talk more about Adaptive Travel, please reach out.  I'd love to be part of the conversation!  

OPEN

It's 2025.

When I open my eyes in the morning, this is what I see.

It's just a photo, framed on my bedroom wall, but I've planned it this way.  It's purposefully placed, a kind of "photo-therapy."

This one image is everything I need to get out of bed:

Morning light.
Street sounds.

A gentle breeze.

Hope, piled high, for the day ahead.

It's the view from my Paris Airbnb, which I admit was a nice place to be first thing in the morning.  

I can still feel that duvet on the toes of my bare foot, smell the owner's leather jacket hanging in the closet, hear the bell ting on the city bus below.

But there's more.

This photo captures a moment I always savor -- even at home -- that delicate space between asleep and awake.  

In this moment, I haven't yet put my leg on,

or seen my crutches stacked up,
or tried to digest food, 
or juggled "too big" ideas,
or tackled the "to-do" list on which I'm already behind.

I'm not yet zapped of energy -- or frustrated by discomfort -- as I trek the distance others go without much effort at all.  

In this one moment, there is just me and that open window.  My body is not fractured, and the day is still whole, pointed with possibility like sun through a magnifying glass.

It's all the motivation I need.

On New Year's Eve in Scotland, at the stroke of midnight, people open the doors of their homes -- front and back -- to let the old year escape and the new year rush in.

My friend Jen will tell you we did it this year.

"Quick!  Go!" 

In my small apartment, she rushes to open the "front" hallway door while I yank open the "back" door to the balcony.

It's raining outside.  The air blows cold with moisture, car horns, and the boom of fireworks we hear but can't see.

(By time I remember this tradition, it's 12:15 AM, but we get it done!)

The new year is OPEN for business, and I open my whole self to it.

Open door.

Open window.
Open mind.

Open to ideas and experiences, no matter how small.

Open intestines (DIGEST!) and lungs (BREATHE!).
Open eyes -- and senses.

Open book(s) -- and inkflow.

Not every day will feel this way, I know.  Some days, I won't be able to leave the apartment because of leg issues or abdominal pain.

Other days, I'll carve a slow path around the block.  

On the best days, I'll explore locally.  Or, if I'm lucky, farther.

Wherever I go, I'll write.  

I've got other projects too.  Ideas are plentiful this time of year.  The journey may change shape along the way, but isn't that what adaptive travel is all about?

I'm "open" to it.   (Want to come?)

Get up.  Get dressed. 

Let's see what's beyond that window.

Happy and healthy new year!
Rebecca

Mile Marker 13,255

Infinity in One Block

Hello from Mile 12,480.

At 7:40 AM, the clouds hang low, but the heat stands on tiptoe, poised to soar.

It's summer in Old City.  I'm used to it.  

I get out early.  

Walk when I can.

It's a "good leg day" so far.

So on the way back from getting coffee, I don't go straight home.  Instead, I pass the doorway of my apartment building and cross the street onto Elfreth's Alley.

It's 100 (or maybe fewer) feet from my door, but when I step onto that cobblestone walkway, I travel.  

Not just because Philadelphians have been walking this block since colonial days, but because I've been walking this block.  For the dozen years I've lived across the street from it, Elfreth's Alley has always been there for me. 

It gives me a place to travel -- without going anywhere at all.

For a few summers, I volunteered at the museum here, meeting travelers from around the world.  I loved answering their questions:

"People still live here?" they'd ask, pointing to an Amazon package on a doorstep. 

(Yes, and they get deliveries.) 

"Women were really homeowners?" 

(Yep, and business owners too.)

And my favorite... 

"Where can we get ice cream?"  

(Franklin Fountain -- try the peach!)

During the pandemic, I wrote a middle grade novel set here.  To this day, each time I walk past the 2nd house on the left -- with its olive green gate and fanshaped flag on the door -- I think, "That's where the Mitternights live."  The Mitternights are an imaginary family who exist only on my pages.

On so many mornings like this one, I walked here with my foster daughter, "Rainbow."  She'd dart between the houses, beneath the canopy of trees that mark a narrow opening called Bladen's Court.  

There, she'd hop along the stones till she reached the old water pump, where she'd hang from the handle, pretending to yank it.  I'd saunter behind, focusing my footwork and sipping my coffee.

To me, it was an easy place we could go for fresh air.  To her, the Alley was a playground.

On this block, I've "sweated out" of my prothesis. 

I've toured with out-of-town friends.

I've crowded with tourists under a tiny roof in a thunderstorm.

I've tripped over the cobblestones. 

I've even fantasized about buying one of these houses, fixing it up, and opening an Airbnb.  I've told my neighborhood friends we should do it together.  They're not quite on board - yet. 

When you get to know a place -- really know it -- it holds unlimited possibility.  You see it up close.  It can encompass the past and future, a whole world in just a few steps.

(In my view, anyway.)

I've signed up for another travel writing class -- the "advanced" version of the one I took last year with Rolf Potts. 

I am super excited for the opportunity.  I'll be in Paris again -- to learn, observe, and write about the city in new ways!

But also... I'm a bit rusty.  

And sort of an imposter.

My classmates will be worldly and well-traveled.  (I've checked out their websites!)  Some have written books.  Some have made a life out of going to, living in, and writing about new places.  

They don't seem to walk the same few blocks day after day.

I wonder what I'll write about.  How my adventures will compare.

It's not a new question.  I expressed it to Rolf last year at my one-on-one writing conference.  

Is there a place for me as a travel writer -- one who takes small steps in small spaces?

He thought there was.  He encouraged me to go deep, to shape my experiences into stories only I could tell.  

I don't go everywhere and can't do everything, yet is there something special -- even unique -- about slowing down and zooming in?

Day to day, I may not travel far.  

But I can see infinity in one block.

And maybe that's a perpective the world needs too.

Walk on,

Rebecca

One Great Thing

Hello from Mile Marker 12,290...

Walking hasn't been so great.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm SO glad to be back on my feet again -- going anywhere at all.  Getting used to being in my prosthetic socket, with all its pressure points and pain, is just part of the process.  

Still, it's been wearing me down.

On Saturday night, I call my friend Beth.

We've just received the tragic news that our friend Gary has passed away. 

It is completely unexpected.  He was our age.  A physical therapist AND a firefighter.  Smart.  Caring.  Brave.  The kind of person our world needs more of.

We'd been friends a long time -- 
all the way back to our skating days.

Beth and I feel the loss together.  Reminisce about our many years in the skate club and how much things have changed since then.  

I tell her I feel caught between wanting to do everything (because "life is short") and not wanting to do anything (because "life is hard"). 

How do we navigate a world like that?

Then Beth tells me about a man she knows from her hiking club. 

He's in his 70's and always upbeat, despite aches and pains and rough terrain.

She asked him once how he stays so positive.  

"Even on the worst days," he told her, "I try to find one thing that makes each day great."

He gave her some examples. (They were really small things!)

Beth and I laugh it off.  It's probably not that simple.  

But we start listing "great" things anyway -- things we usually take for granted...

Our health.

Electricity.
A warm bed.
Food in the fridge. 

We both know the truth:  These are really big things -- and they prove how great we have it. 

The next morning Beth texts me:  

It's a great day because the sun is shining.

I look out the window.  She's right.  

And when I open the window, the air outside smells like spring.

That's when I notice my grandmother's begonia has a new brand-new bloom.  

I snap a pic.  Text it to Beth.

That's THREE great things already -- and it's still early!

Without planning to, we start texting each other here and there, tossing small "great things" back and forth like a badminton game.

Moroccan maple nut mix from my brother in Chicago.
Mile 88,888 on her car's odometer.

A quote on a coffee board near my doctor's appointment.

Once you start noticing great things,
they're everywhere!

Yesterday marked six months since my dad died. 

There is nothing great about it.

But I remember my dad had this special way of navigating hard times.  A unique combination of humor and hope.

Even at the end of his life -- sitting in his recliner at home or lying in bed at the hospital -- he would light up when I walked in the door.

"Hey Dad, how's it going?" I would ask.

"Great!"  he'd always answer.  His voice rose into that exclamation point no matter how bad he really felt.

I think my Dad would have liked the "one great thing" idea.   

He was pragmatic though.  He'd know it wouldn't change the world.

I know that too.

But maybe it'll change my corner of it.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Find one great thing? I'd love to hear it! :)

Hope Walks In

 "We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And just like that, hope walks in.

Oh, how I've missed it!

After 2 months on crutches, I tried to get my prosthesis on.

The socket didn't fit.  At all.

Socket fit is finicky, I know.  I'd been struggling with it since my earliest miles as an amputee.   

Still, I'd been anticipating this moment -- easing my little leg gently into the prosthesis, standing on my own "two feet" again.  

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.)

When it didn't fit at all, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.

Six days later -- somewhere around Mile 12,145 -- I arrive at Prosthetic Innovations. 

I crutch through the parking lot heavily, weighed down by all that has changed.

But Prosthetist Tim isn't deterred.  In fact, he seems happy to see me.  

I tell him about the fall, and how bruised my leg was afterward. 

"It probably looked like your shirt," he says.

I glance down at my tie-dye t-shirt, splotches of blue and purple and gold and green.  

Yep.  I laugh. 

It's good to be back.

Tim gets out his measuring tape and loops it around my leg.  

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.

Tim brings out a pull-bag, a surefire method to get into an extra tight socket.  I slide it over my liner.  

We try again -- together -- to get my prosthesis on.

For a split second, I think it'll work.  (Things usually work here, even when they don't at home!)

But... Nope.

I feel the shadow of discouragement.

"We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And with those words, my insides light up. 

He has a plan.  

He'll make me a new socket.  Maybe temporary.  Maybe not.  One that will fit my leg now, not as it used to be.

The SOONER the BETTER, he says.

I am 100% in.

We go into the casting room.  

Wrap my leg in plastic.  

Don the funny shorts.  

Flashback to Mile 2,015.
They're always in style!

The drill is familiar -- and filled with hope.

The cast will become a mold for a test-socket, which'll be modified as many times as necessary until it captures the new shape of my residual limb.

I loved my old socket, with its soft magenta interior and butterfly on the side.  It had carried me through a lot.

But maybe letting it go -- at least for now -- is the ticket to move forward.

Socket fit is a multi-step, patience-draining, fine-tuning process.  

In my earliest miles with a prosthesis, my dad drove me back and forth to Prosthetic Innovations for fittings and adjustments.  

I always felt down beforehand.  

And up afterward.

It became a joke between us --

I didn't just get a leg adjustment. 

I got an attitude adjustment too.

Lucky for us,
they were buy one, get one free!

This time around I know what to expect.  

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.  

It will require perseverance, flexibility, and adjustment -- in both leg and attitude. :)

Casting is just the first step.

But I know about first steps too.

And this one feels like a HOPEFUL start.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Keep Rising

Greetings from Mile 12,142 --

My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.

I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!

Remember Angry Cookies?  

And Cookie Apocalypse?
And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something?

Whenever I faced a tough patch, baking always helped get me through. 

I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- hobbling around in a "boot" and on crutches.  

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.  

But still, it's exhausting.  And laced with loss.

I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.

I had written off baking completely.  

It just wasn't worth the energy.

Two weeks after my dad's funeral, my mom and I travel to Vermont.  

I plan the trip and do the driving.
Mom is the Sherpa, lugging everything except my backpack.  

(She's small but mighty!) 

We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made dozens of times over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.

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.  

This trip is different.  Everything is different.

Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.

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...

King Arthur Baking Company --
the headquarters!

To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. 

The parking spaces are close. 
The doors are automatic.  
The restrooms are roomy.  
The floors are smooth.

That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!

I feel absolutely welcome!!

The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...

KEEP RISING.

It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :)  

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.  

Then we poke around the factory store.  It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread.  

Mom does all the carting and carrying!

I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while.  We both are.  But it's not exhausting.  

It's renewing.

Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters.  

They don't even notice the delay!

Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.

At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.

I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.
Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients.  

Stand when I need more leverage.

I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...

It's just different. 

I plan out each step.  Try to be organized.  Stand up.  Sit down.  Stand up again.

It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting.  

It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I want to do, not have to do.

The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.   

I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.

The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.

I measure and stir and crack a few eggs.  
Drip oil down my sleeve.  

Drop wrappers on the floor.
Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.

My hands are busy.  My mind is focused.

Disorder becomes order.  

And that mess on the kitchen counter?  

It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.

A pumpkin-cranberry bread
to share, gratefully, with friends.

Making time for who and what we love is always worth the trip.

KEEP RISING. 

Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Bake on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Recipe here:  Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread

Happy(er)

Beep beep! from Mile Marker 12,111...

On our first ride together, I can't find the odometer.  

Then I see this two-digit number at the bottom of the dash.

40 mi.

40 miles?  For this trip?  

Nope.  Just 40 miles. 

Total. 

That's the odometer -- haha!

It's the first smile we share. :)

Happy new car!

Screech!  Reverse...

I did not want to get a new car.   

Or a new microwave.  Or a new toilet.  

I did not want my apartment's HVAC to clink and clank like there's a ping pong ball in the pipes. 

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.

I haven't walked in more than a month, aside from what's absolutely necessary.  Do I sound irritable?  I'm irritable.

Morning miles were a way to shape my day.  

Without them, I've lost some momentum.

In the world of illness and injury, these are all small things. 

I know.  I get it.

But they happen in the context of bigger things. 

A few weeks ago, I heard this line on a StoryCorps podcast:

Always look where you want to go, not where you want to avoid.

It was advice from a dad to his son, who was learning to drive.  

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.

But dads are wise.  

Especially when it comes to cars.

At Mile 12,111, I wake up early, with fresh perspective and new energy.

It's Labor Day.  

September.  

(Old teaching habits live on.)

And I have this thought:

Not everything is happy, but could I make things a little... happier?

Instead of a sluggish start at home, I rush through my routine, get my leg on, and go out.

Walk (or limp) into the parking garage. 

Get in the car. 

Drive to CVS.

It's a mere 2 blocks from the apartment -- somewhere I used to walk -- but hey, who's counting?  

I hobble in for a quick errand.  And then, the magic happens.

My new car and I conjure up the tiniest little adventure. 

'Cause we've gotta celebrate Mile 100! 

We drive to the Italian Market, where Gleaner's Café has just opened.  

It's my old favorite coffee spot -- one I can only reach on 4 wheels.

I pull out my coffee card and realize I've earned a free cup.  Better yet, I snag one of the last Hershey's Kisses in Gleaner's history!

Woo-hoo!

It's a small happy thing -- which makes me think of other happy things, big and small.

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.  

I picked up my new car on September 1.  

I chose her carefully with love and guidance from -- you guessed it -- my dad.

And maybe it sounds silly, but...

I think she's HAPPY to be mine!

Drive safe. Be happy(er).

Rebecca