Raleigh on a Monday Night.

I took these pictures after dinner at Sitti on Monday night.

I've been trying to find the words to go with these pictures all week, but they are slow coming.

The meal was fantastic - far too many plates laden with concoctions of chickpeas, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese, honey, dates, assorted pickled vegetables, chicken, and yogurt sauces that we sopped up with endless warm pita. The red Lebanese wine blend was delightful; the baklava dense with pistachios; the glasses of madeira we passed around the table, the perfect lingering finish.

I was sated beyond belief, walking out, taking these pictures. Raleigh's streets at night are beautiful in an entirely different way than the sleepy neighborhood I currently call home. And yet, I love it just as much.

I drove home and went for a walk when I got there, my head still fuzzy with the madeira, my belly still stretched from the meal. One mile, two miles. My body hummed from the day, from the dinner, from the heat, and my mind wandered as my legs carried me over the familiar pavement.

It sang soulfully, like the city.

Numbers

First of all, today is my father Michael's birthday; to me, birthdays are best celebrated by coming together with people you love to remember the past years and to look down the road at what's to come, but mostly to just enjoy the moment and create some new memories.

And while I hate I can't be there today to raise my glass to him, he and my mother Janet will be coming down in five weeks to celebrate her birthday, so I will get the chance to toast them both then.

Part of our agenda? Going to the beach.

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I have a running list of things to do this year and a few weeks ago, I added Spend at least 10 days at the beach.

Today I crossed off day number five.

Surf City on Topsail Island has become my go-to spot. Eighty-five miles of country driving down blue highways 111 South and 50 South started no later than 9 a.m. guarantees my toes are in the sand 90 minutes later.

Last week, on the Fourth of July, I noticed this sign in a different light. My birthday is 4/22 (4=2+2) and these days number 22 is coming up everywhere.

I glance at the clock and inexplicably it's 3:22 or 9:22 or 11:11 (11+11=22).

I look down at my Garmin and I've walked 1.22 miles.

It may just be the psychological principal of the recency illusion and it's only these moments that are registering because I've attributed significance to the number. Maybe it's merely an OCD tic that's kicking in. It is most certainly profoundly egocentric. Nevertheless, these sightings of 22 have become a touchstone. A moment to remind me to breathe. To smile.

...as has the return of the sun!

Today's waves were fairly large and more consistent than they have been in my recent visits; the surfers were out in full force. After doing my fair share of playing hard, I took my walk.

One mile up the beach, one mile back. Hundreds of footsteps on infinite grains of sand.

Progress

Take care of your body. It's the only place you have to live. - Jim Rohn

Not in the way of the storms moving out. No way, no how.

Driving home under these skies last night, though, I was thinking not about the weather but rather about my first PT session with Morgan from Raleigh Orthopaedic.

I found myself saying hello to a brunette sprite with warm eyes. She listened as I babbled on about my experiences these last several weeks. After an assessment, she determined that my strength and flexibility were pretty high, but that perhaps I could benefit from some manipulation with some implements.

She brought over a piece of metal and had me lay on my side and she began running this tool down my IT band. At first, I felt nothing, but I could tell by her face that she did. After a moment, I began to sense something bubbling from my muscles to the surface.  "You have pebbles in your legs!" She then moved the tool down to my calf. "See how that runs down smooth?" She went back to the right IT band and then I could feel it, as the tool caught on dozens of micro-knots.

She continued to work it, plying the tool in smooth motions down my leg and gradually, they went away.

"Now, it's going to hurt tomorrow, and, depending on how easily you bruise..."

The tool she used is part of a modality called the Graston Technique. I've extolled the virtues of my foam roller here many times before and the Graston Technique works in the same way, but allows for maneuvering around tighter areas. It hurts...but it's the pain of healing.

And that, that is progress.

Would Rather Walk

The clinic waiting room was spacious, well-lit and clean. While I waited, I absentmindedly scanned my phone, idly ripped at the skin around my nails, crossed and uncrossed my legs, chewed my gum a little too loudly.

"Erin?"

The staff were efficient; my x-rays taken in no time. All too suddenly, Dr. Barker was there in his white coat holding his laptop, my x-rays a ready file on his desktop, asking me what the trouble with my right knee was.

I had been thinking about this for so long - I wanted to be specific and precise - but, of course, my nature took over and the words came tumbling out.

He gestured to the table, "I have a good idea of what it might be, but lets check a couple of things."

He pressed, flexed, stretched my right leg, then my left for comparison. Everything felt fine but - "There, that hurts?"

I winced. Indeed, it did. He did it again, again, and again. 

"That pain you were feeling, that is actually a small knot there where the muscle connects to the leg bone. So, the good news is I suspect it is IT band friction syndrome," Dr. Barker said cheerfully. "Bad news is...I suspect it is IT band syndrome."

"Better news is, your knees look beautiful." He opened his laptop, my femurs, patellas, tibias and fibulas glowing white in the gray darkness of skin and muscle and blood. 

No running for two to four more weeks, take NSAIDs regularly, ice and stretch, and "Sure, you can walk. And I know you're probably itching to get back, so come see me in a month if you want to try a cortizone injection."

(No thanks, doc.)

I would rather walk my way through this hiccup. I am so glad I can. 

Walking

Yesterday I went back to the beach.

Once again, it was a sun-drenched day. Once again, I walked. But this time with friends.

Tomorrow I go see an orthopedic specialist about my knee. I've gone from running between 20-25 miles a week to walking between 8-10. I'm not sure what I'm going to say if he says I have to stop any kind of activity all together. Or, if he tells me no amount of rest is going to fix it, only surgery will.

But yesterday I tried not to focus on that. Yesterday I went to the beach with two lovely ladies and we sunbathed, talked, played in the surf. We walked.

And then, we took ourselves out for a late summer supper, complete with watermelon cocktails.

This summer has contained so many unexpected things that have left me unsettled, particularly the rain and the pain.

But the surprise of new friendships is a grounding experience and pretty awesome.

They Were Right

The sandflats are waterlogged right now, after a week? ten days? two weeks? of almost nonstop rain. Finding a moment to turn my face up towards the sky and catch the sun has demanded a bit of prophecy, a dash of good luck, and an unhealthy attachment to watching the radar. 

But last night I went for a walk under the first starry sky I'd seen in a long, long time. And seeing those pinpricks of light in the inky black sky flooded me with hope for a similarly clear sky in the morning. 

The night was thick with humidity, my hair curled against my neck. The air hung heavy with water vapor and sulfurous smoke from neighborhood fireworks. The frogs sounded out their symphony. Some screamed, some actually said "Ribbit." 

I kept looking up at the sky, at the stars. I thought about how one individual star doesn't mean much, in the massive firmament. We have assigned places in constellations to find them. Patterns we have found in the sky. Above all, I kept hoping this clear night sky meant a clear morning.

I have so missed the sun.

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Today's holiday dawned shrouded in mist. I made coffee, packed my car, and headed to the beach.

To Surf City.

To sand dunes.

To waves.

To sun.

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For nearly four hours, I basked, I walked, I swam, I surfed, I read, I watched, and I loved.

The waves pounded the beach - churning up sand, turning the ocean at the shore brown. 

Walking alone down the beach, I looked at people - on the shore, at the water's edge, in the ocean. The towheaded ten year old boy surfing with grace; the chubby two year girl flopping around and squealing with delight; the leather-skinned couple holding hands as the shuffled along. I thought about these people - these individual stars - and wondered, if I stared long enough, if I would be able to see the constellations they formed. If I could divine their connections to the bodies around them. 

And I was reminded that I had a place, whether I can see it or not. 

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(I am so glad they were right about the sun coming back.)

They Say

The sun is due back at the end of the week.

Lord, I hoping. Without the sun it's hard to appreciate the full glory of this summer of #crazyclouds (follow me on instagram @erinwouldratherwalk)

This morning, I received a e-newsletter from Blue Lotus, a yoga studio in Raleigh I am hoping to visit soon. The meditation that Jen offered was this:

Whatever it is that you are holding on to--and the list of possibilities is long: childhood baggage, unforgiven hurts, unhealthy habits, toxic relationships, I could go on and on-- chances are good that you didn't pick it up last week. Part of the holding on is, itself, a habit. And a habit takes time to really cement into your way of being.

So you recognize that you've got something tight in your fist (or your mind or your heart) that is holding you back. Whether it's animate or inanimate, it regularly has your attention, your time, your energy, and you've determined that there are better places to put those precious resources. How do you actually let go?

I love the quote "the only difference between a groove, a rut and a grave is depth". In yoga, these habits, or ruts can be called samskaras. For a quick definition, a samskara is the way you've always done it before- always leading to the same result.

While eventually we'd like to be free of samskaras, living ever-present in the eternal Now, that's a pretty lofty aspiration for most of us on the mortal plane. Unless you're clothed in gossamer, wings a-trailing behind you with a harp soundtrack, that might just not be for you this go round. What to do?

Start by doing something different. Make a new, healthier, more productive, accepting, compassionate groove. See the pattern about to repeat itself, white-knuckled and closed-hearted, and make a change. It can feel terrifying or exhilarating, but over time it feels lighter, more free. And eventually you look down and see that closed fist has softened to an open hand. Ready to receive something new.