The last year has taught me so much about pain, specifically my own expectations that pain should be neat and tidy. I want pain to come like a runner’s hurdles — a clear challenge I can see coming, then jump over with a big push and go sprinting off into flat ground.
The last year has shown me the many ways pain can twist. There has been disagreement that won’t resolve. Death I can’t mourn. Life I can’t celebrate. It has not been the pain of clean cuts but of rug burns, angry and stinging and all the more confusing because there isn’t even any blood.
As it turns out, pain is less like a hurdle and more that TV show Wipeout. And my only hope now is to gird myself with the foam helmet of God and the thick life vest of yoga as I go, not sprinting elegantly over my trials, but stumbling from gauntlet to gauntlet.