Climb Mount Fuji

My friend Kim is climbing Mount Fuji.

For real!

I'm following her journey as I recite the 9's times tables.

No, it's not a dream.  Although it definitely sounds like one.

On the same morning Kim starts her climb -- or more accurately the night after (It's 9:30 PM in Japan!) -- I start my usual walk around the block. 

It's cool and drizzly here in Philly.  The sidewalks are flat and mostly "hike-able," except for a construction zone or two.

And thankfully, the coffee is hot!

I have never been to Japan, except if you count 3rd grade.

We studied Japan that year.

Our classroom had a bulletin board displaying a mountain of blue-gray construction paper, surrounded by clouds.  In the sky above the scene, the board proclaimed:

CLIMB MT. FUJI

That was also the year we learned multiplication.

Each day, we took a one-minute speed quiz.  

First the 1's,
Then the 2's,
Then the 3's,
And so on...

As we "passed" each times table, our names would hike up a notch along the slope of Mt. Fuji.  Day after day, we raced our classmates toward the summit.  In those days, rote memorization (and healthy competition) were par for the course!

I climbed steadily till I hit the 9's. 

The 9's were my nemesis.

It's been years since I've thought about that challenge, but when Kim messages me from Japan, it all comes rushing back.  

For me, climbing Mount Fuji will forever be associated with the times tables.

It's like a short circuit, or a trapdoor of memory.  

Fun to jump through... but why??

In the unlikely event I ever DO climb Mount Fuji, I'm pretty sure I'll have other things on my mind.  You know... real, useful things.

Like sweat in my prosthetic liner.

Pressure points on my skin.
My prosthesis coming loose.

Stress on my right foot.

And trying not to fall.

But for now, this strange link is a fun diversion on an otherwise unremarkable day.  

It's a way keep up with my friends.  To travel, in space and time, without all the fuss!

No need to take time off.  
No packing necessary.  
No health issues to worry about at all.

So as I take my short walk, I imagine myself trudging up Mount Fuji alongside Kim in Japan.

9x5 = 45

9x6 = 54

9x7 = 63...

(Happy to report I now have the 9's down pat.)

Thanks for the inspo, Kim!

I'm right there with ya!

My Favorite Kind of Snow

...Is this kind.

The kind that settles lightly on car windshields, but leaves the sidewalks bare.  The kind that's soft and powdery, like the dust of sugar on cookies.  

Like someone decorated the city just for me.  (And maybe they did!)

GRACIAS :)

As a solo traveler and above-knee amputee, I'm especially cautious in the winter.  I fear snow, ice, wind, and all the hazards that come along with them.  

Really, anything could take me down.  

And, if I go down, my independence goes down with me.  (This gets complicated when you live on your own!)

Snow makes everything more difficult.  It lingers in the city, restricting my ability to run errands, step off curbs, and even park my car.

Long after it's clear enough for "most people," snow continues to confine me at home.

But not this kind!

Today the pavement is drying.  The puddles in the street are liquid, not ice.  

And bonus -- as I start down the sidewalk, a familiar voice calls out my name.

Running into Donna makes even the smallest walk BIG FUN.

Go Eagles!  Go Flyers!

Good vibes, Philly!

For me, this kind of snow is an unexpected win.

Remember This Moment

January 26, 2023.
5:02 PM.

This moment, I'll remember.

The first sign of more daylight,
later sunsets, and longer days to come!

It's the first time since late November that I notice the sky is still light when I get out of work.  

I head east as usual, driving the 14 city blocks home because (1) it's too far for me to walk, and (2) after working all day, my leg isn't predictable enough to take the bus.

I snap a photo so I'll remember this moment.

(No worries, Mom. I'm at a red light!)

This pic might be forgotten by the time I get home, buried 20,000 deep in the "recent photos" album on my phone, like so many others. 

So instead of just snapping it and moving on -- as I usually would -- I deliberately decide... 

To remember this moment.

It's January 26 -- the (many years') anniversary of my brother Mark's Bar Mitzvah.

It's 5:02 --

the number of my 2nd grade Brownie troop,
of which my mom was the leader. :)

Numbers often stick in my mind.  But even without them, it's not hard to engrave a moment in memory!  

Take a typical Sunday afternoon...

My parents and I are in the den watching New Amsterdam, Season 4, Episode 22.  (Yes, we're a little behind.)

In my hands is a mug of hot cinnamon spice tea, a gift from our friend Becca.  And I'm nibbling a piece of dark chocolate from my friend Cécile.  

My mom is curled up in the corner of the couch closest to the television.  She's eating a mini-scone that I baked a while ago, then froze, then defrosted.  

My dad is in his big recliner next to us, commenting back and forth with me on the unlikely scenarios of our show, while simultaneously watching the Flyers game on his Kindle.

I'll remember this moment too.

You don't always need a camera to make a moment memorable.

One of my favorite podcasts, By the Book, did an interview recently with Meik Wiking.  

He's the founder and CEO of the Happiness Research Institute in Denmark, and author of The Art of Making Memories and The Little Book of Hygge. 

In the interview, he talks about this exact thing -- how to turn ordinary moments into memories we won't forget, simply by noticing them. 

And how that can make us happy.  

Even on a very small scale.

If -- like me -- you're on a journey that often stays within 14 blocks of home, it's a good skill to take along!

What will you remember?

P.S.  When "real travel" isn't possible, I often escape into podcasts and books. If you're interested, you can listen to the By the Book interview here or learn more about Meik Wiking's books here.

Cookie Bar

When you see a sign like this, you just have to go in!

I mean, right??

An errand this week takes me to Doylestown.  It's ridiculously far from the city, so once I'm there, I have to at least take a little stroll.

That's when I see the Cookie Bar.  

I take in the vibrant mural, the sky blue shutters, and the little white building that houses this delicious idea.  My mind goes wild with the potential of it all.

What is a Cookie Bar?
Is it a bar that serves cookies?
Or a design-your-own-cookie assembly line?

I imagine a bartender in a baker's cap, a rainbow-tiled bar top, and of course, an array of "top shelf" milks and syrups that would line the wall behind it.

But wait, maybe it's not that kind of bar at all...

Maybe it's like a salad bar -- for cookies!  Yes, that makes more sense!!

Just picture it.  

A self-serve counter lined with neat scoops of cookie dough.  Chips, candy, nuts, and berries in bright little bowls.  And at the end of the bar, the pièce de résistance: a bake-your-own-cookie machine -- a cross between an Easy Bake Oven and that "conveyer belt toaster thingy" at the Comfort Inn! 

I'd be fine either way.  With a Cookie Bar, you can't go wrong!

Finally I venture inside and...

Well... there are cookies.  And they are cut into bars.  There are some regular ones too, just freshly made.  They look good. They smell good.

I take a few home to try.  My dad samples one, and he likes it. 

Yet I can't help feeling a tad let down.  

It's a good bakery.  I'm glad I didn't pass it by.

It just couldn't quite compete with all the hype... in my head. :)

Years ago, my cousin Brett and my friend Kym would talk together about starting a business.  

An IDEA business.

They'd start a company whose sole purpose was to produce ideas for other people.  (I believe they were planning to sell them, but they never got that far!)

As they talked about it, their inventory of ideas grew.  Creativity is contagious.  I was excited just listening to them!

Brett and Kym aren't here anymore.  I miss them both -- and their energy.

And I think of them in moments like this.

They would have loved the idea of a Cookie Bar!

So... 

If you agree, I've got an offer for you:

One idea.  A Cookie Bar.  Re-imagine it as you will.

I have enough on my plate.  

Go ahead.  Run with it.

You can have it for FREE.

Got Vision?

Yesterday our amputee support group created "vision boards" for 2023.  

Of course, I had to overthink mine.  (This goes without saying.)

So I carted the pieces home in a Ziploc bag.  

And later, over a mug of dark cocoa from Brazil -- thanks to my traveling friend Monica! -- I trimmed, and arranged, and almost glued them down.  

But not quite.

Even today I'm not yet ready to commit.  Every time I step away from the board, I come up with a new idea.

I have TOO MUCH vision.  There are so many paths I want to follow.  So many things I want to do!

There are have-to-do's.
And want-to-do's.
And can't-wait-to-do's....

I consider myself lucky.  This is good problem to have.  It means my health is okay.  It means I have support and all my basic needs are met.

My board is still a work in progress, but when I zoom out to view it on a yearly scale, I'm awed by the designs that emerge.  

Themes. Words. Images.
Hopes and dreams.  
Priorities and patterns.

I work to pin them down in a way that's motivating, harmonizing, and inclusive of all the things I love.  To create a picture that's inspiring, but also...maybe...possible??

Uh-oh.
Where do I put the pieces that won't fit?

Time and energy are precious resources for all of us, but especially for those with health issues or disability.

Each day I wake up hopeful that I'll find balance between the have-to-do's and want-to-do's.  I try to pace myself and take steps toward those can't-wait-to-do's and "big picture" goals.

This year will wear me down, I know.

But right now -- in January -- the vision shines brightest.

I look forward to gluing down the pieces, but I think it's the process of creating them I love most of all.

What's your vision for 2023??

Acts of Resilience

Even from bed, I can hear that the streets are wet.

My apartment is cozy.  My socks are dry.  And (eventually) I'm dressed for work.

My phone says 100% chance of rain.  

I don't want to get soaked, so I decide it's too wet to walk.

There's always a tiny sense of failure in this decision.  While I want to stay dry, I know my leg will fit better -- and my body will FEEL better -- if I get out there.

To walk or not to walk??  

Final test:  I peer down from the living room window at the cars driving by below.

Wipers are... OFF!

Walk is ON!

Superhero boots?  Check.

Long raincoat?  Check.

Umbrella?  Check.  (Awkward to carry, but good to have just in case!)  

Truth -- By the time I reach the sidewalk, it isn't raining much at all.  It's not even that puddle-y.

And the best surprise:  I'm not the only one out!

Mike the artist sits on his usual bench with a big red umbrella.  Friends Richard, John and Carol are at their regular perch in the window of Starbucks.  (I knock and wave as I pass.  We see each other everyday!)

I've been thinking lately about acts of resistance and rebellion.  How, by pushing my own limits, I seem to push back on society's idea of what it means to be "disabled" -- or "able."

Morning miles are one example.  On a very tiny scale.

For an above-knee amputee, walking takes 60-100% more energy than it does for a person with 2 legs.  That means by the end (or even the middle) of the day, I might not have enough left in the tank.

But at 7 AM?  I'm game!

On the way back, the message in this shop window catches my eye.  And I realize what I'm doing isn't quite an act of resistance -- or rebellion.

It's an act of RESILIENCE.

We all need a few short minutes each day to fill our superhero boots -- and take on the world.

These are mine.

Small Walk. Big View.

It's one of my best kept secrets...

Morning Miles are just a slow stroll around the block.

My closest friends know this.  So does my family.  But outside that circle, it might appear different.  Now you know too. 

Small walk. Big view.
(And if I'm lucky -- coffee!)

That's how I roll.

Today a ribbon of pink arches across the OC sky.  I watch it from all angles as I circle the same sidewalk as yesterday.

Sure, I dream of venturing farther.

Reaching different neighborhoods,

trying new cafés,
really getting a morning workout...

But that's not how it usually happens.  

Here's the real story:

Each morning -- body permitting -- I wake up, get ready, and get my leg on.  (Some days, this is a bigger project than others.)

Then I head out.

I don't have to go far.  There are no expectations.  Still, there's something special about traveling the same path each day, no matter how small.  

Sometimes it's the friends I meet.  

Sometimes it's the coffee. 
Sometimes it's the sky.

Before I know it, I'm back home for breakfast.  

Fueled by the views along the way.

Protected

12 years later, I am here...

Happy Alive Day!

Each year on the anniversary of my accident, I find myself standing on the corner of 5th Street and Washington Avenue in South Philly. 

I watch the traffic go by, breathe in the autumn air, and stare wistfully (or perhaps lovingly) at a little patch of blacktop that's so familiar I consider it mine.

Today the blacktop is different.

(And I've never been more excited to write a blog post in my life!)

This intersection -- which has felt to me like the most vulnerable place in the world -- is now PROTECTED.

With a brand new
PROTECTED BIKE LANE!

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  

The best "Alive Day" gift I could have asked for. 

(Seriously, my eyes tear up with joy!)

A biker in a gold helmet approaches, following the same route I rode on this exact day 12 years ago.  I snap a pic as she passes by. 

It feels like the whole street
should be paved with gold!

I look both ways and then step carefully onto the green lines myself.  The paint is still fresh; the colors, impossibly bright.  

My eyes follow the smooth curve of white strokes on the ground.

I admire the row of perfectly placed posts, dividing the roadway between traffic and bicycles.

I knew this was in process.  It's been years in the making.  But I drove by just weeks ago -- and none of this was here! 

(It's so new, it comes with instructions!)

I step back on the sidewalk to take it all in.  An ambulance passes.  Then a few trucks.  Then some kick-scooters.  Then another bike. 

Washington Ave. is busy as always, but it feels different somehow.  Changed.

I have to tell you... I almost didn't go back this year.  

I've changed too, and I felt a strong pull to do this day differently.  To turn a new page.  Get a fresh start.

I wondered if it was time.  But how would I know?

Is 12 years too soon to move on?
Or is it too late?

Turns out, 12 years is just right.

This isn't the end of the journey, really.  Just the end of a certain chapter.  There'll be many more milestones, I'm sure.

Maybe I'll write about them. 

Or maybe I'll move on to something new.   

Whatever happens next, this little patch of blacktop will always be with me.  It's a cherished, sacred part of who I am.

Today, like always,
I leave a little something behind.

But today, leaving feels different.  Better.  Less unfinished.  More secure.  

Wherever I go, I'll know this place is taken care of. 

Its markings will be there to protect all who pass through.  Bikers on their way to work, like I was.  Kids on their way to school.  Skaters, scooters, strollers, and so many more.

What could be better than that?

Thank you Philly!

Be safe, everyone.  Buckle your helmet.  Pedal on.

And, as a wise PT once taught me, don't forget to enjoy the ride!

xo,

Rebecca

Vision Zero's goal is to reduce traffic deaths to zero by 2030.  For more on Vision Zero Philly and protected bike lanes, click here.