new space, same number of arms

 Hello! It's me, OneArmGirl. My blog has a new home at TheOneArmGirl.com. I'm still working out the kinks and living off free website hosting for as long as I can, but if you're looking for some fresh posts, I've got you covered. Please come on over, stay for tea (if you don't mind making your own). And never fear, the Blogger account will remain intact as the archives for TheOneArmGirl.com.

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as the confetti settles

It's been a week since amputee circus camp came to an end.

Credit: Michael East

After five full days of playing and training, it all climaxed in a bang of confetti for the finale of our performance at the Ontario Contemporary Circus Showcase in Toronto.

The piece featured each camputee on her chosen apparatus: fabric, hoop, and Erin's celebrated hanging wheelchair. The one brave camper dude brought down the house with his hula hoop, tossing it into the air and catching it with his nub arm.

We certainly accomplished a lot in one week. We laughed-e.g. "Does anyone remember where I put my legs?"-We cried, in frustration and recognition, and we prevailed with no camper left on the ground. But though we were drawn together-literally grouped-over the commonality of limb difference, I was struck by our diversity. Even our physicality spanned a spectrum, and no two of us had lived the same experience in our bodies. I didn't find, as I expected, that working with other aerialists with missing limbs was particularly helpful in skill development because we were each so differently abled.

Camputees

Instead, we had so much to learn and consider from one another because of our differences. I learned from Talli how one moves through the world with no arms; from Bonnie the importance of wheelchair accessibility and how often it is lacking; and from several that not all prosthetic legs are created equal. These are things that I never consider, that no one ever considers, until one is confronted by it.

On Saturday, our courageous teacher and camp co-leader, Tina Carter of Airhedz in the UK, was invited to a panel discussion around the question of accessibility in circus. She invited each of us to forward our ideas. But I think there are no concrete answers here. The most important thing is openness to learning from one another and believing that we all have important things to contribute, in circus and elsewhere. Accessibility is a state of mind. That's where it begins...

OneArmGirl 

away to the circus

Hello there! I know, it's been a minute...or several years, whatever. Explanation? Well, I could say I ran away to the circus, which is kinda true, but I didn't run so much as take a plane, then a bus, then a train...and it wasn't several years ago, it was Saturday...and it's not Barnum and Bailey, it's circus camp...and no ordinary circus camp...it's amputee circus camp, or as we campers have affectionately termed it, Camputee 2019!

This is actually the second annual Amputee Circus Camp, hosted in Kingston, Ontario, at Kingston Circus Arts by the lovely and talented Erin Ball. Erin lost her legs below the knee several years ago. She was an aerialist before her accident, and she has continued with a mission to bring others with limb difference and disability into the world of circus.

So here I am. Just getting to hang out with other limb-less or partially-limbed folk from all over is novel enough, much less have the opportunity to play together on fabric, trapeze, and other aerial apparatus. It's surreal. 

Erin and Talli

There's a good variety of us with partial arms or legs or both. Very few times in my life have I had the pleasure of being in the majority when it comes to limb deficiency. And to find as many other folk with limb differences who are ALSO interested in circus arts is close to impossible. But then, "impossible" is a word we don't give much credit around here.

Of course we are all serious about circus and working so hard our entire bodies are aching with soreness, but the comedic potential in such an environment is astronomical. Just one peek: in the Starbucks drive-thru the other morning with Bonnie and Talli, both with lower limb deficits, we missed the ordering spot and I offered to jump out and ask the car behind us to back up, only to discover the child-lock was preventing me from exiting the vehicle...me, the one most able to jump out. Don't fear, coffee was ascertained eventually, an international incident averted.

OneArmGirl   

good enough

As a self-diagnosed recovering perfectionist, I've discovered a fantastic new life motto: good enough.

I recently decided to 'go back' to school by taking one course in anatomy at the local community college. After completing the necessary registration steps and procuring a student ID, I found myself in the book store reminiscing about old college days, exorbitant book costs, and ridiculously long lines. These days we have a thing called the internet where one might purchase any book, any or all additions, and have it delivered to one's door in two days. When I was last in school, the internet was for messaging your roommate across the room because it was so novel.

Textbooks are still absurdly expensive, but as a new student in my late 30s, school is a novel experience. Going back to school is one of those rare opportunities that one has to do it all over again, but differently this time. And even though I found myself with the same old stomach full of winged caterpillars on the first day, it does feel different. Mostly I just don't care nearly as much this time around. Teachers do not reflect who I am and test scores do not determine my self worth. I laugh in the face of extra credit. Ok, maybe my ears still prick up at the mention of bonus points--let's not get crazy, I said I'm a recovering perfectionist here. But I kinda feel like I'm 'playing' school, like it's a big game or an experiment--how well can I do with less effort? And I'm having fun--a word never associated with academic pursuit before in my life.  

I woke up this morning thinking about my new approach to school, that there's a definite line between agonizing over perfection and stopping at good enough. This was not a part of my vocabulary in early school days. As silly as it may sound, I only knew how to strive without end, to study obsessively until you're certain you will know the answer to every question, to read a paper over and over again until your vision blurs--practices that seem verging on psychosis. At least, it's no way to live.  

'Good enough' means putting in what is commensurate with what you are getting out. I'm finding I retain more learned information when I stop to consider it's actual relevance to me and my life, how it may benefit me or those in my circles. And that goes for everything in day to day life, work or play. As a reformed 'exceptional' student, it's astounding that it's taken me this long. I got good grades most of my life, but I studied for the test, I wrote what the teacher wanted to read. I was scholastically successful, but not life-accomplished.

It's just not worth measuring up anymore to anyone else's expectations. I'm the only one who will account for my life and how I spend my time. Good enough is whatever counts and not a second more. That's what I (now) call perfection.

OneArmGirl

cool arm

When one of her unicorns loses a leg, 6-year-old Arwen remains nonplused. 

"Oh well," she says, "you can still do things without a leg."

Several years ago, Arwen attended an outdoor aerial gig in which I performed. Her mom tells me that when Arwen saw me on the fabric, she was hooked. Every time I see her mom, she reminds me: "Arwen talks about you all the time...she thinks you are so cool."

Last week, at the circus arts studio that her mom runs, Arwen reminded me herself when she walked over to me and said, "I like your little arm. I think it's cool."

"Thank you!" I said giddily, "I think it's cool too."

In a nutshell, this is what I do. Or, it's what I want to do: to let little girls (and boys) know that having one arm...or leg or ear or toe is OK, and more than OK...it's cool.

I'd say it's my vocation, but that sounds like taking too much credit. It's more like something that happens when I'm around. And also, I guess, because I don't just sit on the couch and eat potato chips. No offense to those who do, but I just don't like potato chips that much. PS: If you can eat potato chips with your toes, it's time to get off the couch...

But of all the emails I compose, meetings I attend, formal teaching I do, I really believe this is the most important work--the work of being fully who I am, being 'cool' in my body.

It's not the sort of career one generally goes into. Not a lot of informational trifolds in the career counselors office on being one-armed. Not much money in it, I guess.

But when a small person like Arwen, with so much love and life ahead, reminds me what I'm doing here, it feels right. It's simple, sometimes aggravatingly so, but I can't think of anything more rewarding I'd rather be, or do.

OneArmGirl

balance

For the third time in two weeks, I've been asked if I have difficulty with balance. This time it was in relation to my sometimes involvement in gymnastic horseback riding, in which I've been known to stand on a moving horse.

The answer is, yes, of course I have difficulty with balance. Anybody trying to stand atop a trotting horse or climb on fabric hanging from the ceiling or just take a beginning ballet class is going to find themselves challenged by gravity.

Painting by Noam Lazarovitz

 But I am not being asked this question because I partake in certain disciplines that require balance, among which is also cycling with a dog attached to one side of my bike. People are asking because I've got one arm and they are curious if my asymmetry is an issue.

And the answer to that is no, not really.

I'm no PhD, but I've had a lifetime of balance practice. And if anything is true, I've been balancing as long as I can remember. For example, you may easily find me balancing a tray of food or a jug of milk (or a baby) on my raised thigh whilst opening a door.

"I'm going to write about balance," I told my new massage therapist. I was spurred on by what seems to be widespread ignorance of physics and physique.

"Oh, you mean actual balance," he said, "not like internal or spiritual balance."

No, that I have great difficulty with...

Physical balance is way easier. When a medical professional asked me this week about my potential imbalance, she was not talking mental. I sheepishly explained how each person must have their own midline based on individual physique, a sense of balance that develops over time.

She looked at me, nodding, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

But even if you cut someone's arm off, they aren't going to suddenly fall over. Not in my experience, anyway.

I dare say I may have superior balancing ability out of sheer necessity. Can I walk a high wire from one skyscraper to another, probably not. But it's a little offensive to have my balance called into question so frequently. I guess I could throw the question back at people while shoving them to test their balance...

But I suppose the pen is also mightier than the push.

OneArmGirl

down time

If your summer is going anything like mine, you are finding yourself more and more active. Coffee dates, horseback riding, teaching, fundraising--all very enjoyable, splendid things to do, but at the end of nearly every day I find myself sun-weary and muscle sore (including the brain muscle).

When I was a kid, I was terminally afraid I was missing out. If it was at all exciting, I wanted to be a part of it. This pervasive anxiety over not doing enough or not being enough or not being where I needed to do something continued into adulthood.

Then I got sick, so sick all I could do was lounge around my parents' house. I found myself in the middle of the very nightmare that stalked me. But I learned something critical during my convalescence: even when I was doing nothing, I was still doing something. I was still breathing. I was still seeing and feeling. I was resting. 

This shift in my thinking about the intentionality of rest was revolutionary. I learned to value the down time. I was no longer missing out or wasting hours of my life--I was existing at a slower pace.

Days like these, as I find myself busy (now practically a curse word in my vocabulary) again, I long for that blessed rest. So I'm trying to carve out oases of creative relaxation into my routine, to allow myself the freedom to just take the afternoon off, drive to the mountains and watch a hummingbird buzz back and forth from perch to perch.

I can't think of a better use of my time.

OneArmGirl

the bike incident

Not long ago a good friend sent me a video of a double arm amputee successfully changing a flat tire on his bicycle. This week I tried to put a tire just filled with air back on my bicycle and failed. Thankfully no one was taping it, so you won't see it on YouTube anytime soon.

Granted bicycle maintenance is not something I've put a lot of time into, but with my dog looking forlornly up at me after several days of pathetic walks, I trotted down to the basement with great expectation.

I trudged back up with my unwieldy and uni-tired bike. Already exhausted, I assessed the situation before me. Thankfully, I had saved the hardware I'd removed with the second tire, careful to remember the order in which it needed to go back on. This only proved so helpful, however, as I attempted reassembly. I soon discovered that even if I could get the tire nearly into position, it was still impossible to open the breaks wide enough to fit around the tire.

After tinkering with oily parts to no avail, I pondered my predicament for several moments and made a command decision. I would take the bike, tire, and other necessary pieces back to the bike shop where I'd had my tire pumped up and ask them to put the tire on.

So I carried the bike, which seemed to have grown heavier somehow, down the alley to my car parked on the street. But the real challenge turned out to be getting the bike into the backseat of my sedan. Just when I thought I had it most of the way in, the front end would swivel and catch on the door frame. I cursed the handlebars. The break lever hit me on the jaw. I went to the other side of the car and attempted to pull it through. Then back over, nudging and pleading, seriously questioning life decisions that had led to this moment, not having a boyfriend being one of them.

Finally, the bike settled in just far enough for the door to close. Too exhausted and sweaty to drive anywhere by this time, I walked grumpily back to the apartment, seriously considering the possibility that bicycles are secretly trying to ruin our lives. 

That's when I saw my neighbor Dave's wife walk out of the house next door and remembered that Dave is a sometimes serious mountain biker and probably not only could put my tire back on, but probably could have filled it with air in the first place.

I wisely decided to eat lunch and walk the dog before taking the bike back out of the car. 

Yesterday, Dave stopped over and put the tire back on my bike in about two minutes. He also encouraged me to come to him in future before I decide to lose my marbles trucking it to the closest repair shop (well, he might have left out the part about my marbles).

OK, man who changes his tires without arms, you got me. I'm just glad I know how to ask for help.

OneArmGirl

rehab

I wasn't given any physical therapy after I got my cast off in January, so I've instituted my own rehab routine, mostly consisting of aerial dance and horseback riding. 

In five weeks of wearing the cast, my range of motion decreased significantly and my grip was pathetic. I tried to lift myself up onto the lira (hoop), something I'd done easily in November, but was unable to stand the weight of my whole body. My finger felt like it might snap. So, I slowed down a bit.

I've been doing finger stretches, squeezing exercise balls, and completely letting go of spooked horses that take off suddenly across the arena.

I don't think rehab is something anyone enjoys much. A friend who took a nasty fall of her bicycle resulting in a broken femur last year is still waiting for her normal energy level to return; an aerial dance friend just told me she's been grounded for a month because of bruised ribs.

While I was still in the cast, I went to see the movie Unbroken, which tells the survival story of US Olympian and WWII bombardier Louis Zamparini, whose plane was shot down in the ocean, followed by his imprisonment in Japanese prisoner of war camps. 

The movie was good, but at the end I was surprised to learn that it is based on a best-selling book by Laura Hillenbrand. Many may not know that Hillenbrand, who also wrote Seabiscuit, suffers from debilitating chronic fatigue and dizziness, and rarely leaves her home. As an athletic college student, she became ill very suddenly, dropped out and became dependent on care from her boyfriend. She wrote Seabiscuit and Unbroken--both tales of astounding physical achievement against the odds--after she got sick.

I remember reading what is, to my knowledge, the only article she's written about her illness. She became so dizzy while writing Seabiscuit, she would sometimes hold her head up with one hand so that she could continue typing with the other.

All of this came back to me as the movie credits rolled. I can't even manage to post to my blog regularly, I lamented. And this woman writes best-sellers from her bed. Have you ever wished you were housebound so that you might accomplish more? 

I had to ask: Would Hillenbrand have ever written a word if she had never gotten sick to the point of not being able to do much else?

The value of life is often equated with productivity, but certainly not being bed-ridden. It's easy to feel like rehab is working to get back to a place where you once were. But what if it it more like re-shaping into something completely new?

OneArmGirl      

a limping angel

I went to see Cirque du Soleil recently for the first time. I was enchanted by the aerialists to which I aspire, but was most intrigued by one dancer who danced on crutches the entire show.

I found myself wondering if he actually had a physical impairment that required the crutches or if it was just part of the show. His moves were so smooth, his transitions so seamless, he seemed to almost fly around the stage.

But a hunch sent me to Google the next day. His name is Dergin Tokmak. From Germany, Tokmak contracted polio when he was a baby, but dreamed of becoming a dancer--influenced most heavily by breakdancing.

When he learned Cirque du Soleil was actually looking for a dancer on crutches for the 'limping angel' in Varekai, he decided to audition. Now he's touring the world.

I guess it's tempting to be impressed by how much someone with a physical disability has accomplished in the dance world, but I wonder how many show-goers don't even know Tokmak is handicapped.

Rather than dancing in spite of his handicap, his dance seems inspired by it. His uniquely strategic, flowing movement is made possible by the crutches which, like wings, carry him just above the stage. 

The angel's limp has become a dance.

OneArmGirl

free at last

I'm free! As of Monday this week, the cast is off.

You may have noticed I've been a bit absent the last five weeks. Perhaps it was because my one and only hand was in a cast, or maybe I just took the opportunity to sit on my butt all day, catching up on the latest season of Maron. And you'll never know.

Forced vacation

I missed my hand while I was in the cast. I certainly missed not being able to type or bathe myself, but mostly I missed my palm. Yes, I missed my palm. Or more accurately, I missed feeling things with my palm. I missed running my hand down my dog's back and pulling my friends into a hug. Without my palm, I felt cut off from a world of sensations. I was isolated, all because of one pinky finger fracture. 

I was not in the cast long enough to learn how to do everything with my feet, but I certainly developed the dexterity of the three fingers available. I spent a lot of time thinking about people without arms and how much I rely on mine. And I had plenty of time to think while waiting on the toilet for someone to come wipe my butt.

While the permanent loss of another appendage would certainly send me into a spiral of depression, I was vaguely aware that, eventually, I evolve. I would become the no arm girl, I would own it. What other choice would I have? It's a sobering thought, yet amazing to realize the human body's capacity for adaptation. And even more amazing, the adaptation of the mind, always the slower, harder member.

But instead, I'm enjoying my freedom. I love washing my own face--I have never felt so happy to bathe myself. I'm walking my dog again. And driving is the greatest gift I've ever been given. I am master of my domain once again.

Still, if you ever have the opportunity to break something, or get sick, or somehow end up temporarily laid up, I highly recommend it. You will find yourself astonishingly grateful for your health.

OneArmGirl

short-handed

I suppose it was bound to happen. I was tempting fate. Living on borrowed time...

At the beginning of this week, I fractured the bone and dislocated the knuckle of my right hand pinky finger. Doesn't sound major but when your right and only hand gets put into a cast, you've got a bit of a dilemma.

I was out at the barn working with one of our new horses, when he spooked and ripped a lead line through my fingers, leaving my littlest fifth finger pointing at an angle that it was not meant to do naturally.

The doctor at urgent care realigned, to put it nicely, my finger and braced it. On Wednesday the orthopedist fixed it up with a beautiful purple cast and sent me home with some wishful thinking instructions like don't use your hand. He had no idea what he was asking.

And so I find myself sitting on my best friends couch, unable to accomplish even the most menial task like drinking my morning coffee without assistance. I've never broken anything before much less the one and only good hand I have. No offense to poor Finneas who is now pulling more than his share of weight.

We are making history here at OneArmGirl.

But sometimes your life takes a drastic turn and you must seize the opportunity to learn to do as much as you can with your feet. That must be a famous quote somewhere.

The thoughtful reader may ask how it is that I am even writing this post right now when typing is clearly out of the question, aside from hunting and pecking with one of the two fingers that are still usable.

Voice-activated dictation is a beautiful thing.

So I continue to write and e-mail, though driving and bathing myself are out of the question. Any horse activities and aeriel shenanigans are also on hold.

On the bright side, I now have plenty of time to binge watch Scandal on NetfliX and catch up on serious news stories like "The Top 10 People Who Didn't Make a Difference in 2014" from The Onion.

My New Year's resolution is to increase my rate of bone growth.

OneArmGirl

no hands

My last week in Israel, I was privileged to take a riding lesson from Uri Peleg, a nationally renowned horseman and promoter of natural horsemanship techniques. It changed my life.

But first, we have to go back a few years...ok, more than a few...

I took my first riding lesson when I was about nine. If you are not familiar with English style horsemanship, imagine black velvet helmets, tall black boots, and plenty of snobbery to go around (my apologies to the English, I'm sure their intentions were pure). Unfortunately, I showed up wearing western boots. I should have read the signs.

I sincerely appreciate my training in English riding for the attention to detail and meticulous care for equipment and horse, but managing my reins would prove to be a lifelong frustration.

Lacking in the area of upper extremities, keeping my reins at the correct length to accurately communicate with my horse was nearly impossible. If it was exhausting for me, I can only imagine the irritation of my ride. But knowing only to work harder to achieve what I wanted in life, I persevered...until I quit several years later, believing I wasn't good enough.

So, when friend and fellow riding instructor, Nomi showed me a video of her friend Uri riding and working cattle without any reigns at all, I was mesmerized. The rusty gears started to turn.

--------------------

Sitting astride an appaloosa called Winter at Uri's Ramot Ranch, nothing was working. Winter was not responding in the way I wished to anything I'd been taught to do on a horse. It was like finding yourself behind the steering wheel of a car, but having lost everything you knew about driving.

Thankfully Uri didn't laugh, but started to teach me a new riding language. This new language uses various gentle but specific leg cues to move forward, back, and turn to the left or the right--reins used as a last resort. It is astonishingly simple, and logical in that you ask the horse to move as guided by your legs and body position. The difficulty was getting off the worn path in my brain of using rein language. I literally had to hold onto the saddle horn to keep my hand from moving.

But as I started down the rocky new path of communicating in the natural horse tongue, I felt a slow but steady wave of liberation. Every time Winter responded immediately and exactly as I'd requested, weights of old frustration fell away.

We stopped at the top of a green plateau and looked down over the entire Sea of Galilee. If you've ever felt your life changing in the very moment it does, you know the excitement.

On the way down, I held my grateful hand up over my head, palm waving.

Look, no hands! I smiled to Uri. He smiled back.

I should have fisted it in victory.

OneArmGirl

beauty

"You're so brave, Tashoo," Noam tells me when she sees small children at the resort swimming pool staring and pointing.

I tell her my secret is to not look away, to stare back, and maybe give them a wave with Finneas.

"That way they can't make me the strange one," I say.

Noam says she would like to kick them into the deep end.

But there are larger implications when skimpily-clad, slim young women saunter about everywhere you look in this holiday hot spot.

Every photo I take of Noam and show to her, she wrinkles her nose and says, "Ugly. I'm so fluffy."

"You can't change how everyone sees you, you can only decide to be OK with yourself," I say.

I watch a woman, or girl, walking toward the water, her long perfect back growing out of her symmetrical hips straight up to meet her relaxed, carefree shoulders. I'm so jealous.

I never had a back like that. At her age, scoliosis was already crippling my genetically shortened torso. Regardless how carefree my now thirty-something, emboldened spirit might be, my spine will never reflect it.

Yet, I'm angry with Noam's self-criticism and her doubts about finding a man who will appreciate her body. It leaves no room for her wise-beyond-her-years grounding and easy-going, light-hearted nature. When she says, "I love you, Tashoo," it means more to me than most because her sincerity is palpable.

Neta is Noam's mom. I like the way she drives her truck over the rocky volcanic Golan farmland, one arm resting on the door, the other, with several leather bracelets, casually guiding the wheel. She lets her hair hang long, parted in the middle, like I imagine she has done for a long time. Her work-tough boots move up and down on the pedal.

Her shoulders are broad and strong, but she walks easily without any evidence of stress. Her soft voice and easy laughter exude a natural calm. She brings peace into a room.

I am struck by her beauty. This is the kind of woman I want to be.

One of the brave.

OneArmGirl       

the old country

Hello. I'm writing to you from the Golan Heights in Israel, where the world began, more or less.

I have been here in Israel for nearly a week. The jet lag is mostly gone, but after a long day of ranching yesterday, followed by an after dark trek to local hot springs on the Israeli/Syrian border (complete with Jurassic Park style fence), I'm feeling a bit tuckered out.

I'm eating as much humus as I can tolerate; holding as much Hebrew as I can keep in my head; and generally loving the temperate climate--though my hair is still adjusting.

Tomorrow we head to the south, to the beach.

More to come...

OneArmGirl 

places

It's showtime! AirDance New Mexico presents Other Worlds tonight at 8pm.

Ok, that's my shameless plug. If you are weary of art featuring me and other company members, in white amidst a flowing red fabric, it will all be over soon. Well, until I pull them from my stock photo file for future posts.

In other news, I am going to Israel. Yes, I'm nearly as surprised by this news as you are. My dear friend Nomi, who is also a therapeutic riding instructor, lives with her family and horses in the land where everything began. I wanted to go to Israel one day, but as usually happens, that day came sooner than I figured.

I hope to post here while I am away, but it may be a little spotty as I search for time and wifi. Please hang in there. I need you. I really do.

Love.

OneArmGirl
   

plates

I've had a considerable number of plates in the air as of late, and that does not include the ransacked kitchen left in the wake of Little Gen's determined cupboard cockroach hunt.

There's just so much going on between the end of the riding season, increased dance rehearsals, and watching for the mail carrier to deliver $600 worth of brasiers for Little Gen's disability.

Lost you? See this early post.

Fittingly, I was in the middle of changing into rehearsal gear when the package did arrive, and answered the door in nothing but a dance leotard. After the embarrassment subsided, I felt cool, like the kind of person who does art for a living.

"When I think of grace, I think of you," my friend Michelle once said. Obviously she hasn't seen me lately.

Though it does seem that I've always had, or earnestly practiced, a certain grace in moving through the world. When I was eight, my ballet teacher told me I was a natural. I maintain I decided to be graceful rather than have my smallish arm blamed for clumsiness. Grace was my cover.

In college, I carried my cafeteria tray with the greatest of care. A mouse might run over my toes (and I happen to know of one such incident in said cafeteria), but so help me, my plate would never hit the ground.

Still, people generally assume that balance is not my forte. When I toured the weight room at a local YMCA, the trainer seemed overly concerned that I not lose my balance on the machines. I moved slowly and deliberately, trying to humor his fears that I might, at any given moment, topple over from a light breeze. Never mind the 30+ years I've had to develop an understanding of physical equilibrium. I decided not to mention that I'm an aerialist.

Truthfully, I probably have better balance than most. I know exactly what is required to hold a stack of china plates on my knee whilst opening a cupboard door. Balance is essential to my survival. I dare say, I am on the cusp of human evolution in weight distribution.  

So, the next time you see me, standing on a moving horse, holding a platter, atop which a glass ballerina performs pirouettes--do not fear, she's in good hands....err, hand.

In the meantime, I'll keep my eye on the plates.

OneArmGirl

becoming

The fact that it is nearly 12am on Saturday morning, making this post already a day late, attests to my desperate attempt to catch up on a week that beat me to the finish line.

It's been a full one of excitement, sadness, challenge and liberation. But at this late hour, I will just leave you with the following from Kathleen Norris on the tension of being fully alive:

"Between these two poles, it seems to me, we seek to become complete: between shedding our self-consciousness and taking on a new awareness, between the awesome fears that shrink us and the capacity for love that enlarges us beyond measure, between the need for vigilance in the face of danger and the trust that allows us to sleep."

May we all continue to fight the good fight.

OneArmGirl

successful suffering

"You can't pity someone you're in awe of," a priest once said of the first resident in his home for AIDS patients.

I read this today in Kathleen Norris' Cloister Walk, which I am proud to say I am just two chapters from completing. It struck me as precisely the ingredient to successful suffering.

Successful suffering? Yes, I said it.

In the midst of typical lunch serving mayhem at the Friary yesterday, an older woman stopped to tell me how frustrated she was with her son when he was younger and seemingly unable to lead a productive life.

"I see people dealing with so much and working so hard," she confided, "and I'd think 'What's wrong with my son?'"

"I guess we all have our own journey," I considered aloud, remembering my own harsh lessons.

When I was younger, I refused to allow anyone to feel sorry for me, warring against pity with personal achievement grenades. It was never good enough for me to survive, I meant to conquer. Thus motivated, even self-pity rarely entered my fortress.

Unfortunately, this drive opened the door to an achievement addiction that I'm still trying to kick. But that's another story.

Managing two mugs and a pot of coffee for a table of presumably homeless people, one woman piped up "I'm so sorry about your arm."

"Really?," I said, "I'm not."

In case you missed it: a homeless woman was feeling pity for me.

The truth is, I don't mean to inspire awe, though it's a nice side effect. But there does seem something special about pain that can inspire greatness--greatness which, otherwise, might have remained undiscovered.

OneArmGirl

odds and ends

It's been a busy week here at OAG headquarters.

The riding season is coming to a close soon, but we are hot on the trail of a new home and new horses for next year.

It's strange to think that last year, at this time, I was a month into my Connecticut training to be a therapeutic riding instructor. Now here I am, with nearly a year of experience to call my own.

I'm happy to be home this Fall. Autumn in New Mexico means the end of endless hot summer afternoons and the beginning of roasting green chile.

The next aerial dance show is around the corner, with just over a month to go. Partner Zach and I are working on a lira (hoop) piece this time, with loads of unintentional creativity as per our usual enterprise.

And somewhere in between all the other goings on, I've taken Keeper the dog back to school. Agility school, to be precise. She's a very apt student, when she wants to pay attention. I imagine I'll be called in soon for a parent/teacher conference where I'm told she's very intelligent if she would just apply herself.

Dragon Boy's Mama and I decided to stop eating sugar for one week. I've only almost fallen off the wagon once for a pumpkin spice latte, but I called my sponsor and persevered. I'd like to think my tummy is already receding.

I feel bolstered by the progress I see in my life, if only in small increments. And the bite in the air reminds me that change is invigorating.

For the first time in two years, I want to cut my hair.

OneArmGirl