Making of a Banjo Player

The intention of this blog is to document my efforts to improve myself. At one point I aspired to run a marathon, at another point I hoped to illustrate a children's book. I've had to bookmark some of my goals for now, as I strive to recover from an ankle fracture. After my diagnosis I spent one full day in bed. Another day on the recliner. The third day I removed the temporary cast and took a much needed shower. My knees were getting stiff and sore from lack of movement, and my armpits ached from all the abuse they were taking from using crutches. On day 4 I took it upon myself to take a short excursion out of the house to visit the library with the help of my crutches. On day 6 I put down my crutches and against doctor's orders, I started putting weight on my bad leg. I fished my banjo case out of the closet, opened up my laptop, and started scanning YouTube for banjo lesson videos. There was Banjo Billy, Banjo Sally, and a whole slue of other banjo-ers with tricks and tips. But my favorite was Joff Lowson.

It's day 7 and I am proud to say I have completed a beginner lesson. Have a look.

Banjo for beginners - play Cripple Creek!

Stamina exercises

It's not like this injury sidelined me from running. I did that voluntarily. Zoe noticed on my blog history that I had only posted twice this year (on this blog). Nothing to post.

I started taking antidepressants a little more than a year ago. And oral contraceptives. And at first I was obsessed with the changes I noticed. Everything evened out. No more wild highs and lows. Big improvement. But running made me feel tired and heavy. I remember trying to do the distances I'd been doing, and not feeling the compulsion to reach for a goal. I would hit the path, and aim for the lakefront, and sit and rest there. My 5 mile lunch runs suddenly turned into 1.5 miles. The four and five-finger signs my coworker used to hold up to ask how far I'd run were met with eye rolls because I didn't want to admit my failure.

Soon I felt like none of it mattered anymore. I stopped buying running shoes and apparel and went back to decadent lunches of burritos and cheeseburgers. I told myself a fat layer wasn't something to be ashamed of. It's not! But after seeing myself 15 pounds lighter earlier that year, I have to admit I didn't like the direction I was heading in.

Now I can't even picture that leaner self. I dreamed of getting back on the wagon this summer, in preparation for a new fit life in one of the world's fittest cities. I'm still dreaming.

But enough of the wallowing. I'm here, it wasn't easy to get here, there's a good chance I can work back up to my former fitness once this leg thing is healed. I realize that these days I spend ruminating about my situation could be spent building other valuable strengths. When I'm painting I feel enmeshed in the process. My detail-oriented brain takes over and tells my hands how to manipulate the thing in front of me. I get a thrill out of stepping back and seeing what I've made, and a giddy satisfaction that it wasn't even "me" who made it, but my higher self, which isn't easy to conjure. Today I picked up my banjo. Immediately started to tune the 5th string and snapped it. Not unlike my fibula. No worries, there was a spare. I found a tutorial on YouTube and tried to learn the picking sequence for Cripple Creek. In another hour I was sort of--almost--slowly--playing the banjo! After several attempts to teach my muscles a pattern, I dreamt of how much easier it would be after I practiced for a week or two. And then added on another section. By the end of the year I might know this song by heart. That's how I learn, through observation and mimicry. Music is the one thing--and maybe art restoration too--that can be learned that way. In fact, it demands it. It takes repetition, determination and faith that the outcome will be worthwhile.

The only feature film I've seen this year was Finding Dory, on my birthday. I'd have seen it even if I didn't take my daughter. I saw the first Nemo movie before I had her, and it was breathtaking. This one didn't disappoint either. There's one lesson I keep coming back to from Dory. She becomes lost easily, like we all do. And she never worries that she's out of options. There's always a way. She goes with the flow and it always seems to take her (eventually) to where she needs to be. At one point she triumphantly arrives where she thinks she needs to be, in fact where all signs say she needs to be. It's the place where her inner child/fishling tells her to go back to. But it turns out to be the wrong place for her to be. She is needed elsewhere, and she can only be her true self if she stays on her course. So she again has to make her way back out into the world to reclaim the life she was meant to lead. I think it will win an Oscar. Just kidding. But it is a really great moral, one that probably goes way over the average kid's head. I too struggled to reach a place that my inner child, my inner adventurer told me to go. But until I reach deep down and figure out where, or even if, I belong in this foreign place, the puzzle remains unsolved.

Broke.

Busted. Cracked up. Smashed.

I followed my heart in vain to this magical place where the sky vibrates bright blue every morning and stuns with rainbows and light shows in the evening. My compulsion to see it all filled me with an uncanny energy. I wanted to see every lake, summit, wildflower, sunbeam. I relished the feeling of falling in love. I lay awake in the darkest hours wishing for the sun to come up so I could have another adventure.

I've been reliving the events of the past month, and sorting through the feelings of regret, guilt, confusion, embarrassment and exhaustion that have thwarted any sense of peace that I had anticipated during the 1000 mile journey to my new home.

Father's Day 2016 started out like this.

Filled with anticipation, wearing my new REI tech shirt that Jen gave me as a parting gift. Hair pulled back and ready to kick butt on a mountain trail.

Surrounded by amazing sights and smells, we trekked our way past the large lake near the parking lot, beyond remnants of late spring snow storms, sliding down on our butts when we couldn't trust our footing.

We hiked through snow, mud, and shin-deep streams until the kids couldn't stand it anymore. So we opted to take a shortcut down to the lake's edge. I was wearing a cooler backpack filled with sandwiches and lemonade. When I came upon a muddy patch, my ankle gave out, and the weight of my pack brought me down hard. I heard a pop and crumpled to the ground. Stunned.

The kids all wanted to help. All I could do was sit there with ice on my ankle. I wanted to appear strong for my daughter, so I kept sitting there and smiling, joking that I would eventually stand up and join them. The adults in the group encouraged me to have a beer, and in a panic, it seemed like a perfectly good salve. I sat in the icy mud and tried not to acknowledge the disfiguring injury. I smiled.

A handsome, athletic guy was nearby with his family, and caught wind of what had happened. He offered me 3 ibuprofen and an ace bandage, and a shoulder to lean on so I could join the group at the bottom of the slope. I got tunnel vision, and felt like I would throw up or pass out. I pushed through till I was safely at the bottom. The shock was setting in. Initially I was relieved to rest my foot in the lake water. But the clouds were filling in and I started shivering uncontrollably. Somehow there was a foil blanket in my friend's pack, and I clung to it until we had to make our way back. Two more strangers offered sympathy and a pair of ski poles to help me hike back to the car. Up till this point I hadn't once considered leaving this spot. I was resigned to stay until everything was back to normal. Of course, by this point in my life I should realize that "normal" is a fantasy. Calling for "normal" is as good as calling for my "mommy." The new normal meant dragging my disfigured leg up and down these muddy hills for two miles, in the hopes that I could drive myself back home, peel off my bandages, wash off the muck, and assess the damage.

The bruising stretched all the way around the ankle and down to my toes. I kept it covered with that same ace bandage, and upgraded to a Velcro version. I was in denial to some extent. A friend at home pleaded with me to get a doctor's opinion. I balked, first because of the fact that my insurance was lapsing, and second, because I was afraid of the costs I'd incur. I wasn't prepared to ask questions or demand care of any kind. I just wanted it to get better.

Fast-forward 30 days. The pain has come and gone--and returned, sharper, more focused. I was becoming depressed because my attempts at regaining strength and balance were going nowhere. I was stubbornly trying to return to hiking, denying the discomfort it caused me. Taking photos of my journeys to prove to myself I could still do what I had come to Boulder to do. I had been Googling "ankle injury" and "sprain recovery," but hadn't really considered there could be a fracture. Not until the xray tech excused himself and returned with a wheelchair.

Needless to say, if there was a marathon runner in me, she's on a "break."