Out Of The Blue

This morning, after days of frequent thunderstorms, I heard no rumbling threat of rain and ventured out. The dogs were happy and co-operative, and I was thankful to be walking on a Sunday when the traffic is less and freedom of movement seems more possible. My mind was hopeful, too – the spirit easier. I was simply a woman taking her dogs for a Sunday walk – certainly not expecting to be hailed from behind. My name rang out, and I turned to see a bicyclist. He wore goggles and helmet and seemed a stranger. But off came the goggles and I recognized the doctor I had visited about two months ago, when my cold was at its worst and Laryngitus had stolen my voice. Right away he began to speak of b-12 shots for chronic fatigue. It was as if this were a continuation of our office visit – as if he had been mulling over my state of health since last we met, except that I was being diagnosed on the side of the road on a Sunday morning. Did he seek me out? By now the dogs had lain down as though in cahoots with the earnest doctor. He wasn’t done yet. Seeing that I was receptive to the possible benefits of b-12 shots, he carefully brought up the possibility of depression as a cause of fatigue. He had noticed, himself, that getting older was hard to cope with, and honestly, there were some gentle drugs that could help. All of this could have been very bizarre, or even offensive, except that I trusted the moment, believed in the strangely intuitive powers of of this surprising man. He was as though delivering a message, and once he was satisfied that I had received it, he could go on is way. When  at last I said I would come by his office this week, he took his leave – peddling off slowly down the road.

I was left to resume my own way. The dogs were ready. But I was affected by the encounter – made vulnerable by having been cared about. I walked and pondered the fact of my aging and my obvious resistance. I remembered last night’s attempts to dance full out to chopin – my longing and frustration at my body’s limitations. And into my mind came the truthful wailing of my youthful heart. ” I still want to dance as I used to dance! I want to feel that old joy of moving fiercely, fearlessly through space, of being transformed by my love of the dance and sharing that love! I still want to dance…” But that last cry was tired and sad, and the sorrow made tears that couldn’t be shed on a Sunday morning walk on a public road. Fortunately, Music chose this moment to deal with his doggie business. It was time to pull out one of the scented bags that I carry for just such a moment. Isn’t life wonderful?

Tags: aging, chronic tiredness, dog walking, surprising encounters, the changing dance