The most interesting part of my Monday happened first thing in the morning. I decided to walk to the school where I work. This is something I have not done in a few months because a) I always seem to be running late, and b) the sidewalks and streets are covered in ice. For some reason, though, I thought that yesterday would be a good day to walk. So I did. And, rather stupidly, I left my YakTrax at home.
I think I deserve a thumbs up, however, because I made it halfway to school before I fell. It hurt, and I tore some holes in my tights, but I picked myself up and kept going, trying to be a little more careful. As I tiptoed my way schoolward, a grin began to spread across my face. It was actually kind of cool that I fell, that I had holes in my tights. At first I worried that I'd look unprofessional (which I don't think I did -- the tears were quite small), but then I began to think of my "wounds" in a different light. They were evidence -- evidence that I had been living. That I had tried something adventurous. That I was trying to make a textured existence of myself.
I'll say it again. My newly holey tights proved -- to the world, but most importantly to myself -- that I am alive, and that I am living. For a former anorexic, victory does not get much sweeter than this.
It's the trying that's important, right? Not perfection, not success, although both are nice. But it's the struggling, the attempts, the adventuring that is where the heart of living is found. That same adventuring led to this goofy gal praising God as she slid the rest of the way to work in the early morning dark of Monday, smiling as she went.
Here's a sort of silly take on this thought, hoop-style: