I did a reading with a friend of "angel cards" last week.
My arch angel right now is "Haniel" and he is relative to the "Passion" in life.
I thought about this for a while after I drew the card.
Well, it showed itself with flying colours last Sunday morning (aka, race morning).
I re-discovered my passion for running, remembered the why and not the what, and I got out of
my comfort zone for a time. And it always seems, that when I do that, I feel that much better.
Example: Driving to Maine, alone. After I arrived on New England soil, me and my little grey Mazda, my Ontario plates giving a shout-out "She's far from home people!" I felt like I'd conquered the earth.
Truly. I felt like I'd propelled myself to the moon.
That first 16k run I did last summer. Where I stopped at the corner of Broadview and Dundas and leaned against a post to stretch because I was so exhausted. But through the exhaustion I felt exulted. It was amazing.
Mike. Meeting him (again). Getting to know him (in person, just as he is). The sheer wonder of meeting someone, at the stage of my life where I was "done" with relationships, "done" with the games, the lies, the withholding. And then to have this gift land on my lap.
I've had ample time to think about the life I've signed up for this week. Injury has had me with plenty of time to do nothing but think, reflect, and read a bit--in between icing and heating a neck problem that has blossomed into continual head pain.
I've thought about how self-inflicted this injury was--alot of over-doing it during training runs (I train on my own, there is no coach to rein me in, I'm starting to think there should be. But there I go..passion again). Then I didn't rest my body enough before and after the race run.
So on Tuesday of last week the injury flared, became acute, and led me into the land of being home, in pain, on my own for a good four days before I started to enter the world of the mobile again (and that means walking. NO running. For at least another week).
I had to admire my body's passion. She's tired. I get it. She's stressed (she's fuelled by my mind). She's had a rough eighteen months. Not all bad I have to add--my engagement and wedding were exactly what I wanted, but here I am, a newly-wed. And Mike's not here. He's in Maine, working, while I remain here, working. And despite all the time that work eats up for both of us, there's lots of time to miss each other too. To pine. To start to feel low.
And for my dad, the one-year anniversary looms. It's had to describe. But it's a big milestone. I knew I would and I am, re-living many details of last year at this time. What the weather was like, what I did each weekend, going to see the Angel-reader and hearing his take on things.
Maybe my body wanted to remind me that there are bigger fish to fry in life than the day-to-day to-do list. That pain will make you stop and notice. That pain will make you detour sometimes.
This week, I'll go to two doctor's appointments, and hopefully I will fit a sports massage in. I want to be well, I want to stoke my passion, I want to run again. SOON.
But I have to be patient, which is hard for me. The rebellious side of me wants to ignore my body's cries for help and just start secretly jogging. But I know the price paid for that could be an even worse injury.
So I wait it out. I read about training, and breaks, and rest and recovery. I read about pampering injuries so that they heal with less recurrence. And I sleep, I eat, I stare at the tv, and I watch the days pass.
Passion. It is a mighty fire, one that must be handled with care. Feed the fire too much and you're burning the candle at both ends (although, as the poem says, it makes a lovely light).
For now, there's a brownie in the fridge and a pain pill waiting to help me drift off...