Guest Post: Kira Freed

On the Road to Embodiment

I was on the ground in an instant, being dragged over dirt and rocks. My glasses flew off as my shoulder slammed into a fence. For a moment everything went black; then, as my mind began to clear, I assessed my condition. Just severe bruising and a few scratches on my chin--or so I thought, until I tried to stand and a searing pain shot through my left knee.

I had been volunteering at a stable where disabled children rode horses to gain confidence in their physical abilities. Early each Saturday morning, I cleaned stalls and turned out the horses not slated for use that day. I had been warned that the two Norwegian Fjord ponies were headstrong and difficult to handle, but I felt confident of my horse skills as I fastened Murphy's halter and led him outside. Nine months earlier I had been a caretaker on a farm with six horses, including Hank the Huge, a 2,500-pound draft horse. My confidence with Murphy, however, was ill-founded; immediately after clearing the door of the show ring, he bolted for a patch of grass. I had neither the power to restrain him nor the presence of mind to release the lead rope, not until my shoulder hit the fence and I reflexively opened my hand.

X-rays revealed a broken bone spur on the outside of my kneecap. Days later an orthopedic surgeon further diagnosed a crush injury that had destroyed some of my already sparse knee cartilage. He advised me to keep my knee immobile for several weeks and then begin physical therapy. However, he held out slim hopes for a smooth recovery. I began physical therapy, following every instruction to the letter and dedicating myself to my healing. When my knee failed to respond, surgery became the only option.

The surgeon moved my kneecap laterally, providing a new runway on which my knee could track. Recovery was slow. Four months later I still walked with a severe limp and serious pain. After seven months, when my healing plateaued, I continued to have limited mobility and considerable difficulty negotiating stairs. I was advised to permanently avoid carrying heavy loads, which made even simple tasks like grocery shopping and laundry a challenge. I became more fearful out in the world, especially at night since I would be unable to flee if accosted. I also became terrified of about falling because one more injury could mandate knee replacement surgery.

I began to absorb the fact that my recovery was not going to be complete. With that realization came a steady depression that I couldn't shake. How had my life come to this? I was only 47 years old, and I was a gimp. I had a disabled parking permit and an assist frame on my toilet. My formerly active life had been reduced to short, careful walks, frequent pain, and a constant need to coddle my knee. There were few moments when my knee was not center-stage in my awareness. I railed against my disability, yet was forced to face it by the many tasks I could not accomplish alone or at all. My precious self-sufficiency was gone, and all I saw in my future was a life of bleak limitation.

For decades I had drawn strength and comfort from my faith in Spirit, as both an overarching force and a tangible presence. Eight years earlier, my father had contracted a fatal infection as a result of medical carelessness. My weeks with him before his death left me no doubt that Spirit was present in every moment.

Even with my grounded faith in Spirit, in my pain I was hard-pressed to trust it after my knee injury. Still, every once in a while thoughts would flit through my mind: You'll get what you need. It won't always be this hard. Have faith.

In the midst of those desolate months, I volunteered to assist at the Body & Soul Conference in Seattle, an event featuring leaders in the holistic health and spiritual growth movement. The volunteer coordinator requested that I host a faculty member, helping with logistics and providing escort to and from sessions. I was assigned to Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, a physician and best-selling author who counsels cancer patients and trains doctors to bring more soul and heart into their work.

All I knew about Rachel before attending her teaching sessions was that she worked with cancer patients and was chronically ill herself. I was entranced by her presentations and her quietly joyful, serene demeanor. She spoke of the need to focus on the mystery of life instead of the mastery of life, encouraging her audience to align with the deep currents of learning available in all of life's experiences, those both joyful and difficult.

Toward the end of the conference, she asked me to accompany her to her hotel room to collect her bags. Opening the door, I was relieved to see only a carry-on suitcase and a small leather bag, not the unwieldy mound of luggage I had feared (thinking of my knee). Just to make a bit of conversation, I said, "Boy, do you pack light. How convenient that must be."

She smiled and said lightly, “Actually, there's quite a lot of stuff in there. It's filled with my ostomy supplies.”

When I looked puzzled, she told me that she has been chronically ill for more than 45 years. The little case held the supplies for her ileostomy appliance, which she wears permanently since after eight major abdominal surgeries she no longer has most of her intestine.

My mind reeled. How could someone with such a serious physical problem feel such inner peace about it? No shame, no embarrassment, no sense of a limited life--just equanimity, a matter-of-fact acceptance of her life as it was.

Hours later, Rachel's ostomy comment still haunted me. As I replayed it in my mind, I flashed to the notion, common in our culture, that if anyone has suffered more than we have, we should just buck up and quit complaining. But I didn't think, "I have no right to complain about anything." We all have challenges in life, and we are all entitled to our authentic pain. In fact, navigating that pain with awareness eventually helps us find a healthy middle ground between victimhood and denial. It also supports us in finding a way to live beyond our disabilities.

What I did think, as I reflected with gratitude on my serendipitous meeting with Rachel, was that if she could learn to live graciously with the challenges life has handed her, perhaps I could, too.

Rachel's fine example pointed my life in a new direction. In the years since meeting her, I have learned that feeling sad about my decreased mobility doesn't have to push me into despair. I ask for help when necessary instead of clinging to my old Superwoman self-image. And, with Spirit's help, what once looked like a life of limitation is transforming into a life of slowing down enough to hear my own authentic voice.

Through my accident, Spirit was inviting me to become embodied. The determination required to perform daily exercises to regain knee function opened me to a new relationship with my body, eventually leading me to a series of personal trainers who taught me exercises to strengthen my leg muscles. I am still limited, still need to hold my knee in my daily awareness. But my accident forced me out of my fear and into a bigger world where I learned to distinguish between what I can and can't do about my situation. Nine months ago I moved to an upstairs apartment. I marvel every time I carry my laundry downstairs to the laundry room or take the stairs at a fluid pace with no hand on the rail. Even more, I marvel at the fortunate series of events that forced me out of victimhood and into a life of greater balance and equanimity.