In May, I broke both wrists.
That makes it sound like my injury was self-inflicted.
Dadgum reflexive verbs...
I slipped and fell. Gravity took it up a notch.
But let's be frank. Before I slipped and fell, I took a risk.
Deciding to Go All In
I've always considered myself a seeker. From my save-the-world days as a post-feminist and clinical social worker to my save-myself days as an essayist and spiritual troubadour, I have long viewed self-exploration as the ultimate adventure.
The best part about all these identities: they involve a lot of sitting.
Reading. Writing. Listening. Meditating. Pretty low-impact.
No impact, even.
Over the past few years—pandemic notwithstanding—I, like Gravity, took it up a notch.
Making An Impact
A year ago, I moved to the North Coast of California to start a 9-month professional training program in physical theatre.
Simply put, I went to clown school with a bunch of 20-year-old acrobats.
Enrolling in a physically rigorous conservatory program in my mid-50s reminded me daily of my limitations. Even when I wasn't limiting myself.
The realities of speed, flexibility, and youth—let alone pelvic floor integrity and keeping my contacts hydrated—upended my comfort zone.
But that was the point. Quixotically jabbing the windmills of my self-exploration got me out of my chair. Facilitated my next level of awareness. Tapped capabilities I didn't even know I had.
As the program progressed, I even found myself setting the pace.
Sure, my crabwalk was slower and clumsier than my cohort, but after 30 years of abdominal weight machines, I laid out the room with how many crunches I could do.
The Joke's on Me
The one thing I figured out early and often was that I am not a jumper. I was able to attain some lift in my cartwheels and I became a kindergartner again doing somersaults.
But jumping proved too much for this old broad. Throughout the program, I struggled to get any height at all and my landings remained less than delicate.
And yet, I was undeterred.
What risk did I take before I slipped and fell?
* Spoiler Alert *
I jumped.
Disarming Myself
Talk about making an impact.
The beautiful thing about all this training was that both wrists broke symmetrically. Both bones in both wrists. I landed perfectly balanced. Just in the wrong way.
The grand irony was that I got back to my go-to move: sitting.
On the surface, it appeared that nothing changed. I returned in my comfort zone—albeit a bit less comfortable.
The big question then: was it worth the risk?
Zen and the Art of Risk Taking
Many of us don’t have to endure two broken wrists to feel sidelined. In fact, a lot of times our sitting back is self-imposed by our own ego.
We might hate feeling vulnerable.
We might fear getting it wrong.
We might cower at any perceived lack of perfection.
I call this condition self benching.
Our hesitation—however slight—takes us out of the game.
Compound that with the past 2 1/2 years concerned about viruses and other peoples' exposure to those viruses and their subsequent possible exposure to us—that collective traumatic hesitation certainly does not help our tendency to self bench.
When to Jump
Turns out, with 2 broken wrists, it's really hard to hold a book, grip a pen, or open a journal. So key aspects of my comfort zone—reading and writing—were surprisingly out.
But I could still listen and I could still meditate. One could argue that these are the most important activities for healing and self-exploration.
At this writing, both my healing and my self-exploration continue to unfold. Not as fast or as fully as I wish, of course. But progressing.
Crabwalks and cartwheels? Not so much. Holding books and using pens? More comfortable—and legible—by the day. Even my juggling is coming back.
If there’s anything that we can face as we move into the last quarter of this year, let’s get ourselves off the bench.
Let’s get back in the game.
Make an impact.
Say it with me: it's always worth the risk.