You know what word keeps popping into my mind? Reentry.
Mostly it’s coming up because I’m emerging from a year that included two knee replacements and two cataract surgeries. However, after leaving my orthopedist’s office recently with his send-off, “See you in a year” ringing in my head, I’ve realized it’s about way more.
During COVID lockdown and the ensuing precarious time, I was already in so much arthritic pain in my knees that walking was a problem. I was locked down, all right. Thank God I love my apartment and my own company.
As I look back on the last four years, I realize I was mostly in survival mode. Getting through a pandemic, the death of my father from COVID, helping clients through it, adjusting my urban lifestyle to chronic pain once we were out and about again. And of course, the tension-filled existence of a President who is seeking to dismantle our norms and systems, looming like a stalker over our lives.
My reentry couldn’t come at a better time, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve taken to calling myself an activist journalist because I think it’s important. Well, it’s time to amp up the “active” part of that title. I have a lot to say and I’m frankly tired of always forming my thoughts into pitches and sending them off to editors. I love freelance writing, but sometimes I’d rather impale myself on a sharp object than try to convince another human being my thoughts and ideas are worthy of publishing.
That means, lucky you, dear followers, I’m bringing more of it right here. Read it. Don’t read it. Get pissed. Share it. Unfollow. Praise me to the heavens. Whatever works. I’ll do my usual due diligence and try to foster meaningful dialogue across my social media accounts.
This morning I was moved to take a long walk along the Hoboken waterfront up to The Turning Point restaurant. It’s on the Hudson River. Here you see the fabulous view. I wanted to see how my legs felt doing that walk, “resting” for a while as I ate breakfast and sipped coffee, then walked back.
I was so satisfied to have done it, pushing myself a bit when I needed to. On the way back, I stopped at the grocery store with the $6.99 roasted chickens special on Tuesdays. Self-care, making sure I’d be nourished later.
In my morning pages – a typically daily ritual that had fallen by the wayside in my healing months – I conceived of this as a project I’d like to call #NancyReentry (not to be confused with my recent #NancyVision life coaching campaign). In my journal I wrote:
“My project. My terms. My reentry. My expression. My power. My essence. My fuel.”
Coming back to me.
These entries will be as often as I’m moved to do them. Yes to this.
[This post was originally published on Facebook on May 21, 2024.]
