Abundance

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life..." Thoreau

Recently a friend sent me a poem that opens with the line, “You can keep your sapling body; I want to be a mountain.” That same friend and I, just three weeks ago, hiked Old Rag in the Shenandoah National Park. It was a summit that challenged me both physically and mentally, kicking my ass in the best way possible.

This summer I will turn 47.

This nearly 47-year-old body is well into perimenopause, my twice ACL reconstructed right knee occasionally likes to remind me of its history, and I need readers to see fine print. This is also the same body that has completed a marathon, a half marathon, two sprint triathlons, and has climbed the infamous Manitou Springs Incline. My hair is platinum that I proudly rock, I’ve recently started playing soccer with a women’s pickup league, and I’m strong as fuck thanks to heavy lifting. This body, different in so many ways than it was at sixteen, still shows up when I call upon her, chugging diligently like a workhorse.

Physical challenges compel me; they always have. I revel in the grind of regimen, becoming a machine with laser focus; the sense of accomplishment, whenever the challenge is complete—be it a summit, or crossing a finish line—is a high unlike any other. My degree in armchair psychology suggests that perhaps the required structure of a training regimen provides a sense of order. That order lends itself to control which can be both comforting and empowering. And maybe my ability to successfully stick to a routine reinforces my internal motherboard’s belief in my ability to set and achieve goals, ergo boosting confidence and motivation. So, when my body carried me up 2300 feet of elevation that included a rock scramble, the accomplishment provided an irresistible hit of dopamine. It hardly mattered that just an hour earlier I was hands on knees doubled over questioning my entire life, because at that moment at the peak—my nervous system flooded with dopamine, I was the mountain.

There have been blocks of time where the internal dialogue directed at what reflected at me in the mirror was not so kind. And truth be told, there are still moments where I find myself sliding back into the quagmire of negativity. Thankfully, when those thoughts bully themselves to the front of the room demanding attention, I can combat the impulse to bandwagon by squaring up to those disparaging opinions with some hard-fought truths by reminding myself of all this body has done for and with me. I have arms that once held my infant daughter, biceps that have help lift my frail father from his chair, feet that have clocked miles upon miles of running, a back and legs that have helped load and unload belongings after two cross-country moves, lungs that have propelled me through pools on hot summer days. In the words of Mary Oliver, my body has carried me through this “one wild and precious life.” And for that, I am grateful.

There are no limits as far as I’m concerned, and the longer I live the more I want to accomplish. My sights are currently set on completing the seventy-five mile through hike in the Dolomites of Italy known as the Alta Via 1. It isn’t exactly a stroll, but it’s entirely doable, and the thought of making the hut-to-hut trek makes me feel alive with excitement.

That poem that I referenced earlier is one written by L.E. Bowman, and is as follows:

You can keep your sapling body; I want to be a mountain.

Life oak limbs, and black gum roots.

I want a base, amble and unshakeable.

Thick and steady, storm-ready.

Resolute.

I want skin intimate with the wind, the sun, the rain.

Weathered enough to tell stories.

A testament to my strength.

I want bones trained to carry.

Veins that flow like rivers to my ocean of

a heart.

You can keep your pre.

You can keep you new.

I want after.

I want profuse.

Read clearly: I want abundance. To operate from a place of why not rather than fear. I want to nurture and take this body, in all its shapes and forms, to beautiful places with and among those I love. I want my body to tell a story written by muscle and sweat and rain and laughter. Isn’t that what all of this (waves arms wildly about her head) is about? Living richly, living deeply.

There it rests, snug as a knot, a seed begging to breach darkness: “I want profuse.”