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This is my entry for Week 11 of LJ Idol. This week's topic is "Surgery often looks like murder if you judge it halfway through.”
Halfway (to an After Picture)
Frizzled hair, sweat-
beaded. Ruddy, puffy, muscles
strained and trembling. The work
leaves me breathless, my shirt
taut and pungent. Stained
with salt.
My mind is in so many places right now, but I always go with the strongest idea, the one I can realize more completely. But if I were going to ramble in a hundred other directions, I'd tell you about a hike I took with a small group of Scouts recently, going up at a steep angle for roughly two hours. No switchbacks. Just me reaching the point of breaking. My breath coming in ragged gasps, my legs buckling under me, my ankles and even little muscles in my feet on fire from the bed of rocks we climbed over.
The Scout leader, an old friend and the father of one of my son's best friends, hung back with me for awhile, talking about the state of the world. I told him, "I'm just so tired of evil winning." And he said to me something that reminded me of a story I once heard.
"What's the end point?" he asked me. "Nothing is over. We keep fighting."
We both acknowledged that maybe our brilliant, sensitive, kind-hearted sons will be the ones to bring about a cycle of healing. We are doing our part, raising them. Keeping strong in the face of challenges.
And I kept going. I kept climbing. Until the boys decided it was time to go home.
Mood:
Me, sweaty and strong, after a workout
Halfway (to an After Picture)
Frizzled hair, sweat-
beaded. Ruddy, puffy, muscles
strained and trembling. The work
leaves me breathless, my shirt
taut and pungent. Stained
with salt.
My mind is in so many places right now, but I always go with the strongest idea, the one I can realize more completely. But if I were going to ramble in a hundred other directions, I'd tell you about a hike I took with a small group of Scouts recently, going up at a steep angle for roughly two hours. No switchbacks. Just me reaching the point of breaking. My breath coming in ragged gasps, my legs buckling under me, my ankles and even little muscles in my feet on fire from the bed of rocks we climbed over.
The Scout leader, an old friend and the father of one of my son's best friends, hung back with me for awhile, talking about the state of the world. I told him, "I'm just so tired of evil winning." And he said to me something that reminded me of a story I once heard.
"What's the end point?" he asked me. "Nothing is over. We keep fighting."
We both acknowledged that maybe our brilliant, sensitive, kind-hearted sons will be the ones to bring about a cycle of healing. We are doing our part, raising them. Keeping strong in the face of challenges.
And I kept going. I kept climbing. Until the boys decided it was time to go home.
Light shining through the trees the morning after a difficult hike
Mood:
