Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Monday gratefuls: Health. Diet. Exercise. Weariness. Ruth and David. St. Patrick. Irish Wolfhounds. Shadow of the morning.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Taxes

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #12, The Mirror.  My neshama lies in the boat, ready for another return (teshuvah) to the homeland of my soul

One brief shining: I missed the mark (hamartia) on Sunday’s Ancient Brothers discussion of health. I found myself confused and ashamed. What is health for me? Have I let myself down?

 

Protein targets. Eat real food.  Low sugar, low salt. Exercise: 150 minutes.

Friendships. Learn something new.

A handbook for living perfectly.

I listen. Have listened. Too many marks to hit. I accused the “culture” of blaming and shaming. Making me feel like a self-abuser unwilling to do what’s good for me.

Not true.

Look at the exercise I have done. Intense cardio. Diverse resistance. The labors of gardening. Wildfire mitigation. Caring for Kate.

Don’t I deserve a break, a time when I can focus what energy remains on what sustains me–reading, writing, time with friends and family?

So what if I’m not the poster boy for diet and exercise? So what if I lose six months, a year of life if I can increase the quality of my life now?

Yeah. OK. But.

What if I’m rationalizing?  What if the simple truth is that the alternative is hard work?

Am I blaming and shaming myself by internalizing our obsession with fitness and perfect diets?

Am I the one guy who can’t lash himself to the mast of the good ship health, wax in his ears when the sirens of red meat and downtime sing?

Over the last year and a half, I’ve found this dance between health and quality of life more and more difficult to navigate. Reminds me of our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. I seem stuck between what I can do and what I should do.

Health matters. Ask any of us in our late seventies, early eighties.

My calendar fills with visits to specialists and imaging centers. Back pain. Head drop. A labrum tear. Managing the cancer part of me so it doesn’t destroy its host.

Perhaps that’s it.

So much of my time, energy, and money already goes into health. A lot. I work hard to maintain resilience, not let the little craft in which I live get swamped.

When I get home, I need to place cancer back in its place. Sit down to ease my back.

Exercise then? Nah.

Make something to eat? Yes, if it’s not too hard.

I’ve not yet learned how to square this circle.

I want to live. Live well.

How do I balance these competing, valid demands?

Not clear.

Not now.