A Meditation for Resilient Parts

Mt. Kilimanjaro – Tanzania. I’d never given much thought to my lungs. Their synchronized expansion and contraction. The seamless and automatic exchange of gases. Silent, heaving, spongy bags filled almost a thousand times an hour with sterile, conditioned air; exhaust and smoke; errant sneezes; the fragrance of pine needles and flowers. Oxygen.

Until I was ten years old and the routine prick on my forearm failed to heal, becoming a raised, red bump instead. And the x-ray showed me for the first time what I looked like on the inside. And the doctor pointed to a cloudy, white mass in my chest cavity and pronounced my left lung ill. In a secure wing of Frankfurt American Hospital, where my sick organ could not harm others, doctors determined I was not yet contagious. I was sent home with a prescription and an informational pamphlet, which I read diligently every night before bed: Your Tuberculosis Infection.

The itching was wretched, deep inside my chest, out of reach. A nagging, taunting, scratching heat. For nine months, every evening, after dinner, as I lay on the couch, my lungs crawled under the effect of the antibiotics. I felt violated. Compromised.

Daddy has glaucoma. But I didn’t know until my optometrist referred me to an ophthalmologist who told me that the pressure inside my eyes was high, that my optic nerves were malformed. Glaucoma Suspect, he declared. I’d need to be examined every year to catch the disease early. To prevent blindness. I was 36 years old. A frantic call to my parents confirmed that I’d come by it all rightly.

So, when a trek to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro for my fortieth birthday became a real thing, I did the rounds. Speaking with all of my doctors, naïvely seeking assurances that my lungs could handle the thin air and my eyes would not explode. And that the bum knee that gave out while hopping boulders in the Colorado high country–twice landing me in the stream below–could sustain the 9,276-foot descent on summit day. And that my heart, diagnosed with tachycardia, would not beat so rapidly that our team of guides would send me home. A bundle of nerves and hyper-vigilance, I steeled myself for the worst, as I trained for the best.

Alpine hiking is my radical meditation. A deep attentiveness to this body I live in, its broken pieces and resilient parts. Its hidden reservoirs of energy when the summit is false and warm thoughts are not enough. It is how I remember that I am stronger than the pain and worthy of the beauty.

From Stella Point, the lower rim of Kilimanjaro’s crater, only a tenth of a mile remains until Uhuru Peak, the highest. My friends, Tai and Marisa, waited for me there, beneath the sign that proclaimed the elevation and offered early celebration. We’d make the final push together. I’d dropped behind to take pictures, and with cold, stiff fingers, to fish out a photo of my granddaddy in hopes that, from heaven, he might lift the sun a little earlier than scheduled, and a little higher. And I was tired. Beat, actually. I’d opted for an ultra low dose of Diamox, which I’d skipped altogether the night before, and my breathing was labored. I closed my eyes and felt each footstep as it landed heavily in the shifting scree.

And, there, at the top of Africa, each raising of my leg was an act of mindfulness. Every image projected onto my retinas, transmitted to my brain across those faulty cables, a sweet memory.

Each heartbeat a purpose.

Each breath a choice.