Limits are for Breaking – and Braking

Yesterday I was equally struck by two seemingly opposing ideas from different sources. One challenged me to blow off the limits life has imposed on me; and the other, to deliberately impose limits on my life.

The first was the latest This American Life podcast, actually an introduction of a new podcast called Invisibilia. The episode – “Batman” –  is about a now-middle-aged-man named Daniel who has been blind from childhood, who hikes, bikes, and climbs trees. He can do these things, he and his mother explain, because from the time he was small, she allowed him to explore the world free from the typical limits one might expect a mother to put on her blind son. Sure, he had his share of accidents and crashes, but by challenging the limits society placed on him as a blind person, he grew capable and resilient.

The second was a Zen Habits blog post by Leo Babauta, “In Praise of Limits.” In our consumer society, the abundance of choices available to us every day can be overwhelming, Babauta writes. Purposely limiting ourselves – imposing rules such as only eating during certain hours of the day, only spending an allotted amount of time per day online – can actually make our lives richer and fuller.

Blow off the limits and exceed your own and everyone else’s expectations. Impose limits so that you can live a focused, purposeful life. Both/and. The skill comes in identifying which limits are keeping you down, and what other limits might help set you free.

The Last Day of the Month

On the last day of the month

I cook my stash of vegetable peelings and potato water

Into broth for next month’s soups and stews and gravies

Bake the heels and crusts of bread

For crumbs for next month’s casseroles

Gather the nearest-to-perishing perishable food

Refrigerated leftovers

Fresh fruit and vegetables

Search the pantry and the freezer

For whatever can fill out this day of meals

Made of remnants

Nothing is wasted

Yet this feels like abundance

These meals like generous gifts

As we linger after dinner

Filled to satisfaction in body and soul.

Child-Woman

I closed out another journal this morning. Here’s an entry from earlier this year, written after a particularly painful evening of parenting.

Oh ten-year-old girl with the rages and rolling eyes, the cry and play of a child, the body and mind leaning towards adulthood. You are loved, and lovely. You are unpredictable, awkward, unkind, collapsible. Headstrong, indecisive, brilliant and naive.

I, young one, am your mother. I am wise and baffled. Patient and irritated. I love you. I do not always like you. I am not old and wise enough to never feel pain at your unkindnesses. (No, that’s not where wisdom would be found. Love feels the pain. Wisdom – and love again – can reach beyond it, to embrace you, to envision you in truth, a child-woman writhing in growing pains.)

Sleep tonight, my small darling. Sleep and be refreshed. You are not in-between two realities. You are fully functioning, smack-dab in the center of one reality, this one, the reality of your living self at age ten-and-one-half. And I am honored to know you here and now.

Advice I Must Remember to Give My Daughter

There will come a day

When you view the grocery store circular with anticipation

Its expected suspenseful arrival each week

What will the free item be?

How much will avocados cost?

And isn’t there something you’ve been needing but couldn’t quite name

Imploring your attention from these glossy pages?

In those days

You will find yourself

Sitting across the table from your lover of accumulated years

In the Chinese buffet or the Mexican restaurant

With little to say

That you haven’t said already

In one way or another

And, past the days of longing glances,

You will choose handheld devices

And plans for the next week

To fill the mundane gap between you.

 

When that day comes

Take up running.

You will surprise yourself

With the power and endurance

You’ve already built up.

You’ll go to bed eager for the morning

You’ll wake

Bound out into the dawn

Pound the pavement

Breathe and sweat and move

Everything.

Don’t ask yourself

Whether you are running away

Or running to catch up

Or running towards some forgotten hope.

Just run.

Trust me on this.