I gardened. I bent over, I sat on the ground, I kneeled. I lugged bags of soil and wheeled heavy newly planted pots.
I climbed the stair machine. The first time I tried, 30 seconds felt like a major triumph. Everything hurt. On Mothers Day, I climbed for 10 minutes and stopped only because I couldn't breathe. My lungs, not my hip, decided my fate.
My knee is facing forward. Your knees probably face forward of their own accord, but my right knee has always been a bit askew. My new massage genius is loosening up and moving around and generally disrupting the patterns of a lifetime and, much to the amazement of family and therapists alike, my hips are now aligned and my ten toes come easily to parallel.
I think about Christina-Taylor every day, but the constant tug has been replaced by a vaguely unpleasant ache. Mostly, I watch the 5th graders I met as kindergarten kids move on to a new, middle school adventure, just as the 3rd graders then will be high school freshmen in August.
Life goes on. There is no judgment in that, there is only truth. Getting better is an elusive concept, one I am happy to be around to explore. Because, as always, my ultimate truth is that the sun came up and I was here to see it. By definition, it's a good day.