Moving beyond despair: Copenhagen, trail running, and the persistance of hope
19/11/09 17:34
I’ve been thinking a
lot about loss recently. Right now, there’s a hush
of expectation globally right now around climate
change. The world is preparing for what is probably
the most important international climate change
meeting since at least 1992. And everything seems
up in the air — or, worse, like the agreement may
go badly awry. Several key government players like
the United States and Denmark have been reducing
expectations for what might be reasonably achieved
in the meeting in Copenhagen in December. And even
the BBC’s news unit has announced that they plan to
send a smaller number of reporters to Copenhagen.
Among many of my
colleagues, this news has been greeted with fear
and frustration. I am part of a large delegation
within my parent organization attending the
Copenhagen meeting in about 10 days, and I am
preparing to work with a group of perhaps six or
eight different organizations on a set of issues
that focus on getting strong, robust language that
emphasizes the importance of good water resource
management for sound climate adaptation. In the
scheme of things at the meeting, these issues are
much less significant and visible than developing a
new international framework around greenhouse gas
emissions, creating a mechanism for using tropical
forests as a repository for atmospheric carbon, or
instituting a global fund for helping developing
and vulnerable nations respond to the negative
impacts of climate change. Nonetheless, these
issues are my responsibility, and I think they’re
important and worth fighting for.
Sadly, about two weeks ago in a planning meeting to prepare for the Copenhagen sessions, all of the water language was removed. This was shocking and discouraging — inserting that language in the first place was very difficult and required intense negotiations by some incredible colleagues at other organizations. Like a lot of the people I work with, I felt pretty awful. But I’m not sure that humans are really made for despair. I think we’re made to fight for things we care about, even if the odds seem very long.
Last summer, I had a serious running injury. I was an avid trail runner until then, and my valley in Oregon was an incredible place to develop this passion. Just a few minutes from my home, I could I head off into the woods at a brisk pace, running up and down hills, in the rain, on broiling days, and even on snow and ice. Often, I was completely alone — at least, no people were around. One day I startled a young bobcat. Often when I was running in the dark with a headlight or right around dusk, I saw and heard owls near the trail. No doubt they heard me too. There was also something wonderful about running with a few friends, toiling away on a slope. Sometimes talking. Usually just running together. It’s difficult to describe what a joyous discovery trail running was to me as an adult.
The injury’s details aren’t important, but I knew something was seriously wrong. I finally went to see two doctors. I read the imaging beforehand — it was the most disturbing, even horrifying thing I had ever read about myself. The damage was severe and permanent. The first physician said, If you are very patient over the next year or so, you might be able to run again. The second one said, Don’t even run out of a burning house. I couldn’t speak when he said that.
It’s been almost five months since the injury. I still have a lot of knee pain, and I walk with a limp almost all of the time. It’s been depressing. The leaves have been changing and I look up into the hills every day around my house and think, I should be up there.
However, this week I finally started physical therapy — something the first physician strongly recommended if I ever wanted to seriously exercise again. My PT is great. He’s been a serious competitive athlete in a variety of sports since he was a boy, and his love of running is even more passionate than mine. And it’s certainly of longer duration. Following almost four and half months of solid travel, I also was able to begin swimming again this week — something else that had to stop after my injury in June.
Swimming is not really like trail running. I’ve never felt joy while swimming. The meditative aspects of making 70 lengths in a pool are calming, and swimming leaves my whole body pleasantly tired. But there’s no sense of literally overcoming tall obstacles, of visual progress against a challenge. Nonetheless, swimming is what I’m stuck with — at least for now.
My first two swims in many months happened this week, each 1 mile (1.6 km) in length in an indoor pool. They were difficult. I was fighting the water rather than becoming a part of the medium. My first therapy session was hard as well. My muscles are atrophied, my mind sensitized to pain. My first mile of swimming, I actually cried in my goggles for pain and my fear of permanent loss. (Crying in your goggles is not a very good thing to do while swimming; I don’t recommend it.) I know I’ve never been a very good athlete, but strenuous exertion had become a core part of myself. I miss running like I might miss a dear friend. In truth, the loss of trail running feels like the friend has died, and I’ve been in mourning now for months.
Yet, moving — even inelegant, ungraceful movement — is profoundly wonderful to experience again. The exercises my physical therapist has given me have already improved my balance, and a little muscle tone seems to be helping my knee. In my swim today, I managed to reach a point where I was gliding, buoyed and lifted by the water rather than struggling against the liquid. I actually strained my calves this afternoon a little.
On 3 December, I’ll be heading east to Copenhagen. I’m working hard now with my colleagues to prepare. I am certain that the work will be both difficult and frustrating, and more losses seem likely. But I also think there are good reasons for hope. We can find momentum again. If we can’t run, we can swim.
Sadly, about two weeks ago in a planning meeting to prepare for the Copenhagen sessions, all of the water language was removed. This was shocking and discouraging — inserting that language in the first place was very difficult and required intense negotiations by some incredible colleagues at other organizations. Like a lot of the people I work with, I felt pretty awful. But I’m not sure that humans are really made for despair. I think we’re made to fight for things we care about, even if the odds seem very long.
Last summer, I had a serious running injury. I was an avid trail runner until then, and my valley in Oregon was an incredible place to develop this passion. Just a few minutes from my home, I could I head off into the woods at a brisk pace, running up and down hills, in the rain, on broiling days, and even on snow and ice. Often, I was completely alone — at least, no people were around. One day I startled a young bobcat. Often when I was running in the dark with a headlight or right around dusk, I saw and heard owls near the trail. No doubt they heard me too. There was also something wonderful about running with a few friends, toiling away on a slope. Sometimes talking. Usually just running together. It’s difficult to describe what a joyous discovery trail running was to me as an adult.
The injury’s details aren’t important, but I knew something was seriously wrong. I finally went to see two doctors. I read the imaging beforehand — it was the most disturbing, even horrifying thing I had ever read about myself. The damage was severe and permanent. The first physician said, If you are very patient over the next year or so, you might be able to run again. The second one said, Don’t even run out of a burning house. I couldn’t speak when he said that.
It’s been almost five months since the injury. I still have a lot of knee pain, and I walk with a limp almost all of the time. It’s been depressing. The leaves have been changing and I look up into the hills every day around my house and think, I should be up there.
However, this week I finally started physical therapy — something the first physician strongly recommended if I ever wanted to seriously exercise again. My PT is great. He’s been a serious competitive athlete in a variety of sports since he was a boy, and his love of running is even more passionate than mine. And it’s certainly of longer duration. Following almost four and half months of solid travel, I also was able to begin swimming again this week — something else that had to stop after my injury in June.
Swimming is not really like trail running. I’ve never felt joy while swimming. The meditative aspects of making 70 lengths in a pool are calming, and swimming leaves my whole body pleasantly tired. But there’s no sense of literally overcoming tall obstacles, of visual progress against a challenge. Nonetheless, swimming is what I’m stuck with — at least for now.
My first two swims in many months happened this week, each 1 mile (1.6 km) in length in an indoor pool. They were difficult. I was fighting the water rather than becoming a part of the medium. My first therapy session was hard as well. My muscles are atrophied, my mind sensitized to pain. My first mile of swimming, I actually cried in my goggles for pain and my fear of permanent loss. (Crying in your goggles is not a very good thing to do while swimming; I don’t recommend it.) I know I’ve never been a very good athlete, but strenuous exertion had become a core part of myself. I miss running like I might miss a dear friend. In truth, the loss of trail running feels like the friend has died, and I’ve been in mourning now for months.
Yet, moving — even inelegant, ungraceful movement — is profoundly wonderful to experience again. The exercises my physical therapist has given me have already improved my balance, and a little muscle tone seems to be helping my knee. In my swim today, I managed to reach a point where I was gliding, buoyed and lifted by the water rather than struggling against the liquid. I actually strained my calves this afternoon a little.
On 3 December, I’ll be heading east to Copenhagen. I’m working hard now with my colleagues to prepare. I am certain that the work will be both difficult and frustrating, and more losses seem likely. But I also think there are good reasons for hope. We can find momentum again. If we can’t run, we can swim.
