The brutal language of necessity

A little over a month ago, I posted a blog called “Comeback” with a video of me attempting yoga on the boat rail. It’s been a hard reversal of progress, comparing my yoga skills of eight years ago with today, as the realization hits that regardless of effort, all my mental and physical abilities will continue to fade.

The pre-deep brain stimulation yoga ended successfully, unlike the recent version where I fell in the water. Pride’s harsh language reminds me that I will not beat this thing. Despite consistently winning battles, eventually, I will lose the war.

After a surprised, “Oh shit,” I hit the water.

Reappearing after a bit, dripping wet, I smile and say, “A decidedly different outcome from eight years ago. I would have to say that my balance is much worse.”

Then, after a pause, “But my spirit is right on. Love you all.”

What a difference a few weeks makes, as I am repeatedly visited in chilling isolation by the night terrors, the sensation of anxiety’s leathery bat wings scraping deep within my gut. I write to bare my soul to suppress a burgeoning vanity, to return to balance.

Unrelated to my internal battle, my mother’s health has dramatically deteriorated recently. Losing her will make life difficult to bear for a while. While neither of us is particularly scared of dying, I have grown to rely on our frequent phone calls to recalibrate. It helps me identify my hubris.

Ushered forth is the realization that my real comeback will not be physical. It will be a taming of ego in the brutal language of necessity. All stories of hubris’s grim lesson hinge on this singular example of coming to terms through mortal combat of the soul.

Just as Odysseus leaves Troy for Ithaka because of his love for Penelope, all successful battles with hubris begin and end their story by leading with the heart.

And so will mine.

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