Move

I won’t do it to be a certain size or to see a certain number on the scale, because when I do my efforts wane. Movement becomes delf-defeating, discouraging and draining. It becomes work.

Ah, hell. It is work.

Health, mobility, flexibility, strength and fitness does not – and WILL NOT – come easy. Anyone who sells you an instant fix (shake, pill, wrap) is writing you a prescription to feel discouraged and like a failure later. Why? Because there is no quick fix for health. Newsflash! There is no quick fix for anything.

Read that last sentence 6 times slowly.
There is NO QUICK FIX FOR ANYTHING.
Not bad relationships.
Not big debt.
Not a muffin-top.

shoulders 2

So, why bother?
Why work for your body?
Why do it?
Why get off the couch?
Why be choosier?
Why strive?
Why push?

Why MOVE?

Here are my reasons.

Because my body deserves it. It does everything I ask it to.
Walk, hug, bake, dance.
Kiss.
Make love.
Write.
Lay in the sand.
Savour.
It deserves my undivided attention and devotion.

In the past, I’ve taken it forgranted.
I averted my eyes.
I chastized.
Condemned.
Brutalized.
Overfed.
Deprived.
Malnourished.
Poisoned.
Demanded.
Punished.
Berated.

Just after I finished my process my body felt electric shocky with renewed energy. Suddenly, I wanted to run. I wanted to spin circles in a meadow and smell all the flowers and leap tall buildings in a single bound and I couldn’t because of the years of neglect of my body.

 

My sisters and a (very fit male) cousin and I were walking down by a beautiful lake in New Mexico when I could no longer fight the urge to run. I was wearing (tight) jean capris and little flat black sparkly shoes – definitely not clothes to be active in.

I began to run up the hill, over the red rock, my eyes quickly picking new places for my unsupported feet to land. Nearing the top, out of breath, but elated, my foot landed wrong on a stone and my ankle turned sharply.

Down I went, hard on my left elbow. My ankle throbbed and for a flick of a second I was embarrassed. The fat middle aged woman trying to run fell on her face. Literally.

I could have stopped. I could have felt humiliated and defeated. Instead, I picked my self up, brushed the red dust off my pants and ran the last short distance to the top of the hill. Even further, I walked and ran to the next stop of our tour – just to push myself that little extra distance.

I wanted to move. In fact, I appreciated the pain in my elbow and my ankle. It meant I was still capable of moving. I didn’t break when I fell. It wasn’t too late to begin again. My body was stronger than I thought. My body needed and appreciated the movement and the adrenaline rush.

Feb_13_2013_2

I want to move. I want to stretch and grow and thank my amazing body for all the ways it has shown up for me; the way it continues to show up for me.

Some days moving is work. Some days are play. I nourish and hydrate myself and push through my self-imposed limits, then spend the next day or two nursing 44 year old knees and a sore shoulder or stiff legs.

But my arms are strong and my lungs are clear.  And I can walk 10km … easy.  And I did my very first handstand … ever … on November 26, 2012 at 42.5 years of age.  And gone is the pre-diabetic belly that bulged out over the top of my jeans.

I choose to move.
No excuses.

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