Oops, I did it again
By Liz Biggs
In July of 2024, my column “Dancing Days” begged the question: Why don’t we dance more? My excuse was a long list of dance floor injuries: bruised ribs (fighting the skinheads in the mosh pit for the front row at the Buzzcocks was worth the pain), calf tear (doing the pogo to the Modern Eldorados), and post-hysterectomy stitches damage (I blame the song “Come On Eileen” — how can I not dance if I hear it?), to name a few. I ended the column by stating I should just dance in the kitchen for a while. Why, oh why, didn’t I listen to 2024 me?
Because oops, I did it again. I broke a bone. On the dance floor. How, you ask. Twisting and twirling, of course. Oh snap — a complex, displaced broken fingertip. Ouch. I type left-handed now.
Well, since I can’t play my beloved tennis this season, nor do body pump at the Y, I’ve been doing a lot of walking. Life throws you curveballs (life doesn’t have a broken finger, ha-ha), and the political climate is stormy, so instead of doom-scrolling, I’m taking it to the streets — putting one foot in front of the other.
Here’s a fantastic quote from New York Times staff writer Sam Anderson from his story about hiking the Old Leatherman Trail in the northeastern United States:
“Right away, walking made me feel better. Every morning, when I stepped onto the road, I got a little less angry. It’s easy to hate the world when it’s just an abstraction that lives in your phone. It’s harder when you are out there in it, really looking, interacting. Tiny moments felt hugely healing,” Anderson wrote.
“I felt relieved to be living in reality again, following the small rhythm of my legs over the big rhythm of the landscape, noticing the world, the houses under the clouds. Block by block, mile by mile, I felt my soul begin to unclench — like one of those mattresses that are shipped, super compressed, in a tiny box. Stepping into the world opened the box. Step by step, as the days and weeks passed, I felt my crushed soul stretching out to find its dimensions, expanding to fill the huge space of the whole expanding universe.”
Beautiful words, Mr. Anderson. I wish I had written them. But thanks to you, I am able to truly feel them. And hey, life could be worse — at least a broken finger can’t stop me from walking.
As an antidote to the horrors of the daily news, my walks have become more of a soul-stretching exercise. I used to powerwalk and check my fitness app for results — speed, distance and calories burned. But now I walk with more intention; I’m more observant, searching for beauty. It’s easy to find if you’re looking for it — different architectural styles, yard art, neon-fuchsia azaleas, a white-barked birch tree, music blaring from an open window, teenagers gracefully skateboarding down a hill (more dangerous than dancing!), a dad teaching his kid how to ride a bike, finding a great book in a neighbor’s little free library box ….
On that note, dear readers, I’ll leave you with an inspirational quote from Frank Lloyd Wright, who designed Fallingwater when he was 67, designed the NYC Guggenheim Museum in his late 70s, and completed a significant portion of his most famous work between the ages of 80 and 92:
“The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.”
