It is not so much
what you do to heal, she said,
but that you stop doing
the things that hurt.
The PT speaks of
my hamstring, but I
think about my aching friend,
and wonder if the heart
responds like any other muscle.
Perhaps if we could
stop from doing what
we know makes the pain
increase, like reaching
toward impossible things,
it would be easier to heal.
We are, perhaps,
slow learners. We
are, perhaps, like the children
who say of a scrape, It only hurts
when I touch it, and then
touch it all day to be sure
it still hurts.
The PT goes on to say
she does not mean
I should do nothing.
You can find other things
that don’t hurt to do.
She calls it active rest.
There are many things
a woman can do without
using her left hamstring.
Read. Laugh. Knit. Sing.
Stand on her right leg.
Kiss. Still the longing
to do what hurts—to run—
as if it’s the only thing.
Just as my friend with the pull in her heart
wants to reach and reach again, as if
it might hurt less, not more,
if she keeps practicing.
You have an uncanny ability to take an experience through its cellular components to find its real meaning, and I end up breathing, “Oh, yes….”
Oh, thank you …
Another merging success, I think, the physical and the emotional meld here so seamlessly. The anecdote about the child’s scrap, the ending about the pulled heart. It doesn’t read like therapy, but it feels like it after reading.