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The policeman at the door. The doctor in his office.
How very quickly a life changes from routine to unrecognizable, from ordinary to something completely different from what it had been.
Ordinary, routine, stable, settled. These adjectives are the enemies of life. One of life's messages seems to be this: go beyond. Whatever that means to you, go beyond.
It can be small, this going beyond. You don't have to become faster than a speeding bullet or leap tall buildings at a single bound. You don't have to go from a weekly walk in the park to a three-month solo trek in India (unless that appeals to you, of course).
Going beyond is more than physical. There are many ways to foil the dread demon "routine" and to de-stabilize what makes us so comfortable that we forget how to move.
Let me count those ways for myself. First, I must know what I am doing. I must see my dependence on routine. And having seen, can I then imagine one foot going beyond the marker that limits me? Can I see myself—not changing, necessarily, since that's sometimes equivalent to leaping tall buildings at a single bound—but perhaps edging a toe over that line in the sand that I myself have drawn?
Recently one morning I played a CD of medieval music composed by women. Because we were having guests for dinner that night and I would be away all day, I needed to make a pie crust before I left the house. I found myself in a trance, music soft, house quiet and dark, my hands purposefully rubbing the butter and lard into the flour as I've done for 40 years. The fats were cold and not easy to smoosh, but my fingers knew what to do. When I awakened and found myself still standing there, fingers still rubbing the fats and the flour, not yet quite finished, I felt I might have been there forever.
Was this going beyond? For me it was, because I usually do so many kitchen chores at once. And if I'm not multi-tasking, I'm planning the next steps even as I do one. This time, asleep at the counter, I was with the flour, in the flour and the fat, letting practical fingers lead me to the world of medieval music composed by women.
"Going beyond" has to be slow. We're told not to say "must" or "should" these days. But I MUST go slowly. It's like a yoga stretch. If I take the position and breathe every day for just a few minutes, over the course of time I will change the relationship of one body part to another. But if I push it, stretch my muscles till they're damaged in my rush to "succeed" at change, then I will have ruined it all. I'll have to start over.
Let. Let. Three little letters. I obviously need to become a little "let-ter" myself. Why is it so hard for me to let things happen? Why must I always be in control?
"We're sorry to inform you." When the doctors say that to me, will I be ready? Is anyone ever ready? Perhaps some people are. I think one can be. One can slowly prepare oneself, even for deep change. By preparing every day, by moving my toe over the line a fraction of an inch every day, I'll practice being ready for that knock on the door.
Copyright 2012 Ann Tudor
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