My friend (and I love her for this) burst out laughing. She looked at me incredulously and just laughed and laughed. Our eyes met and she very pointedly asked, “Really? You play it safe?” I then realized why my statement was so utterly false.

perceptions
We often judge or compare ourselves to others. Or to our own expectations of ourselves. We believe the world sees us as we see ourselves. Sometimes that’s true, but way more often, it seems, we don’t give ourselves nearly enough of the credit that others do. We’re hard on ourselves. We judge ourselves.

Are there times in my life when I play it safe? Sure. Surfing. Climbing. Speaking in front of a crowded room. Yet when I look at the choices I’ve made in my life, where I’m headed and what I’ve experienced… most people would say I take risks and am pretty adventurous.

Quitting my job. Starting a new business. Moving to Hawaii. Converting a van to live in for a year… these are not necessarily “safe” choices.

Our inner scripts can be strong. Even though we grow and evolve and transform, those old scripts from our past selves stick around. Sometimes it takes a perspective from a friend—someone outside of ourselves—to see us as we are now.

When you look out over a wide vista, what do you see? Strong and stately mountains? An ocean, smooth and glassy? Or a winter wonderland of soft snow blanketing your city?

I went hiking the other day along a ridge line I’ve often admired while walking along the beach at Hanalei Bay. The rise of the earth above the river with the sheer cliffs and lush green trees beckoned. The scene resembling a live Hawaiian postcard of paradise.

We parked at the trailhead and began to hike up (and up and up). I imagined myself walking right into that postcard of perfection. Then there were the mosquitos, and the dead, rotting branches and the smell of rotting fruit. The trail itself was slick with mud, quickly caking layers onto my shoes.

Postcards don’t show the humidity of those lush, green, tropical forests. They don’t show the hard work it requires of your heart to climb a steep hillside for two miles. They don’t include the pungent odor of wet earth.

Yet it was beautiful. And it was real. It wasn’t perfect and yet my smile and energy and enthusiasm only grew as we continued hiking.

***

Along the trail, toward the top, I noticed a bright burst of pink peeking through the foliage. I sped up, intrigued, to investigate. It turned out to be something I (as a mainlander) had never seen on a hike before: an orchid—growing wild.

My perception of orchids is of carefully maintained and nurtured perfection. I look at an orchid in a flower shop, or at a wedding, and I think about the fragility of the petals and the attention needed to make the blooms so velvety and symmetrical.

Yet here were orchids growing wild. (Of course all things in nature have an origin, but I’d never given much thought as to where orchids came from; where they might show up on their own.) They are wild, pristine and stately flowers thriving in the midst of these island forests.

From the beach, looking at the postcard image, I hadn’t imagined this small bloom would greet me with such beauty (and I certainly couldn’t see it from so far away).

I leaned closer into the orchid to get a picture. There, on one of the petals, was a brown spot. Gasp! An imperfection on what I had formerly seen as absolute perfection. And yet, to me, it seemed so much more beautiful and alive.

The way I see it, nature’s perfection is in her imperfections. Our lesson is to realize this, extrapolate the concept, and embrace it for ourselves. We, as humans (and our lives), are perfectly imperfect.

So look again at the postcard-perfect image before you.

Go hiking, surfing, or snowshoeing and immerse yourself in that vista. Look around and notice the irregularities; the dead leaves; the broken branch; the ding on your surfboard and the shells kicking up and swirling around at the bottom of the sea.

How do they add to the beauty? To the experience? What would it be like if everything was indeed perfect? Would we be missing something?

I appreciate the variances and the uniqueness of how imperfections add to the character of a scene. I think about myself, my friends, and my community and am grateful for our imperfections and how they add balance and originality to the world around me.

Our life, in all its wild variations, truly is like beauty in nature: perfectly imperfect.

The first thing I tweeted was: #10yearsago I had never run a mile in my life, couldn’t hike uphill w/o taking a rest every 5 mins & sanitas too 3 hrs to complete.

Then I remembered that I thought climbing was crazy and had sworn I’d never do it.

So I thought it would be a fun exercise to look back at 1999 and think about where I was and what I was doing in 1999 and into 2000.

10 years ago:

• I thought swimming 15 laps in a pool was a good workout.
• I didn’t like seafood. Or spicy food. Or interesting food. Or any food that wasn’t a carb or meat.
• I was living with a boyfriend that wasn’t incredibly healthy for me (or him).
• I was singing with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra Chorus.
• I was working at a nursing home (as an Activity Director), burning out as a music therapist.
• I got winded hiking up a trail and usually stopped every 5 minutes to rest.
• I thought digital cameras produced inferior quality images and didn’t see the point of owning one.
• I drove a Dodge Neon.
• I didn’t know trail running was a sport.
• I didn’t know much about the sport of climbing and thought “those people” were crazy.
• I enjoyed snowboarding on greens and easy blue runs a few times a year.
• I sewed a lot of crafts and things.
• I was living in Littleton.
• I didn’t know what perseverance felt like.

What I didn’t know 10 years ago:

• That fresh sushi is about the best food in the world.
• That climbing up a mountain was exhilarating and freeing. And that I could do it.
• That my body was capable of developing muscles.
• That my body was capable of running. At all, much less long distances.
• That I would be competing in triathlons, marathons, trail runs and loving it.
• That I would work in corporate America and go on business trips that involved good meals and a passport.
• That I would meet amazing people who would teach me about true friendship, trust, support and total and full acceptance of who I am.
• That I would meet, befriend and fall in love and marry an amazing man.
• That I would climb 16 14ers and run up one of them (three times!).
• That I would learn what a harness and carabiner were and then use them on real rock.
• That I would fall in love with running and climbing so deeply.
• That I would find a passion and turn it into a career that involved the outdoors, fitness and helping others learn and find that passion.
• That food tastes really good with heat and spice added in.

I think the biggest thing I didn’t know in 1999 was that I was an athlete. I ran for the first time in March of 2000. Thinking back on all that I’ve experienced, tried, and accomplished in the world of sport and outdoor activity over the past 10 years I’m pretty amazed I fit it all in.

The journey and discovery of that hidden strength opened up so many other doors and perspectives for my world.

I anticipate the next 10 years will open up and reveal even more. I’m ready.

Where were you 10 years ago? What’s changed? What surprised you? What’s coming next?

I hobbled out of the water to the sand and sat down to examine my foot. It hurt. A lot. A dull, throbbing pain began to course through my foot. I saw weeks—maybe months—of surfing disappear before me. I thought about yoga and balancing on a foot I couldn’t put weight on. It didn’t seem likely that I’d be moving around anytime soon.

I cried. Some because I was frustrated. And a lot because I was so utterly disappointed.

I’d waffled about going into the water at 5:00 in the evening. I get cold easily and the sun was going down. I didn’t feel like my mind was totally engaged. But I shook off the feelings, knowing how much I want to keep working at this new sport and with the intention of not giving in to my fearful, hesitant, and admittedly-sometimes-wimpy side.

And now, here I was, one wave into my session, sidelined. Certainly for the evening, but quite possible for months.

frustration settles in
It’s so easy to indulge in the pity party that accompanies an injury like this. When it’s not clear how bad it is, we tend to envision the worst.

I figured I’d broken it, or suffered a severe sprain. As I gingerly hobbled back to the car with my board and bag, I thought of all the stuff I’ve been wanting to do: get some hikes in, start running again, surf, walk the bay, window shop through town… the list goes on. I watched my friends try to walk slowly beside me, only to quickly end up far ahead. It’s hard to match the pace of one walking barely faster than a slug. Ugh.

My tears came and went. Every movement sent a sharp pain or dull throb through my foot. I snapped at something someone said. I lost some grace along with my patience. And then I felt embarrassed and bad for losing my cool.

All I wanted to do when we got home was clean up and then curl up in a ball with ice on my foot and cry.

small victories
I had two choices that evening: indulge my private pity party at home, or go out and have fun with new friends. I will admit at the time it was a tough choice. Sometimes I’m simply not fit to be around other humans.

But I knew we were all a little on edge and I figured that getting out of the house might just be the thing we needed to turn the energy around.

And what a good idea it was! The entertainment was fun and the company good for getting my mind off myself and what I might be missing in the coming weeks. I was still thinking about my foot, but it was a good (and much-needed reminder) that I can still have fun despite a set-back. That life continues to move forward even when we want to stop and get off the ride for awhile.

a choice in perception
That night I made up my mind to go to yoga the next day. I knew it might not be a good idea, and I knew I may very likely end up doing nothing for the 90-minute class, but I wanted to see. I wanted to know the extent of the injury. I knew there were at least a few postures I could do. And there was also the fact that my hip had just started to open up. I could feel my flexibility increasing and I wasn’t ready to give up on that too easily.

(And frankly speaking, I was really hoping I’d wake up pain-free with the realization I’d over-blown the injury.)

I wasn’t so fortunate. After a night of tossing and turning with constant, dull pain, I woke up with more pain and stiffness all along the top of the arch. I couldn’t bend my toes up or put any weight on the inside of the foot. What was yoga going to look like?

I prepared myself for the very likely chance that I’d leave in the middle of the class. I laid my mat down by the door (for a quiet exit), talked with the instructor about my injury and had brought along my journal and book, ready to pass the time as I waited for my friends to finish class.

the mind of the curious
During the initial breathing, I thought about the class. I thought about feeling frustrated, and then I thought about my overall goals for not only yoga, but for being here in Hawaii. A big part of this trip is about restoration and nurture. I wanted to heal myself and at the same time, accept that things we don’t want to happen, sometimes do, despite our best intentions.

It’s how we respond to the bad stuff that defines our future, right? I decided in that moment that I wanted a good future based on my present situation. I asked myself, “What can I learn from this? What can I get out of this particular class, on this particular day?”

I adopted a curious mind and thought about what I could learn about my foot. How bad was it? How much range of motion and flexibility did I really have? I wasn’t too worried about over doing it. (I’m pretty aware of my physical body and my boundaries for pain, and tend to err on the side of caution.) Sometimes that trait gets in the way of progressing. Today, it served me well as I took it slow, held back and explored the pain.

I learned so many new things. There were moments of defeat when I realized I couldn’t do certain balancing postures and when my foot began to ache and throb too much from standing on it. But I was able to do far more in the class than I’d thought.

It’s only one foot after all. I have many other parts to my body that are in perfect working order. And with the help of my right foot, I was able to maintain a good balance between both feet for the initial postures.

During the first posture I was unable to do fully, I poured my concentration into my arms. (Awkward pose, for those of you familiar with Bikram. It’s the one that requires you to stand on your toes—and THAT definitely wasn’t going to happen.) The instructors are always saying to “lengthen the arms; hold them strong; maintain active muscles in the triceps.” In previous classes, I always work so hard to get my feet and balance right, that my arms are the last things I think about.

Yet here I was, given the opportunity to focus solely on the arms and core muscles. And it stunned me to realize I’d been using very little of my muscles there (or in my core). So much of my posture relied on my legs.

Ah-ha, I realized. I can still come to class and work on my arms until my foot heals.

I was reminded of the foundation. The platform upon which I am building my life. It begins with the smallest of movements. An observation here and there of the little things.

I imagined that process to be similar to what happens when someone builds a house. They check the angles of the construction and the materials they’re building with to make sure the house is stable and built to last.

It couldn’t hurt to check my materials. To make sure my muscles were engaged and moving forward with determination and strength. To align my mind with patience and clarity of direction.

My curiosity found new areas for growth and a newfound patience with myself. I found some creativity in seeking modifications for postures to get the stretch I wanted, but avoiding pain.

i admit the ugly
It’s certainly not an easy process for me. I will admit that I wanted to cry and feel sorry for myself. I wanted to move quickly and efficiently and am at my best when I am physically in motion. I wanted to talk about it and mention it to everyone I see. I wanted sympathy and kind words.

at peace
As I sit here with ice on my foot, thinking about the day, I am reminded that I am strong; that it’s a set-back, and not the end of the world. I know I will recover, and know that if it’s a slow recovery, then it’s a slow recovery. In the meantime, I will cherish the slower pace. I will pay attention to the smaller aspects of life that add up and give nourishment for a richer life ahead.

As in yoga, it is practice—A practice of patience and openness to what life presents us. A chance to relax into our lives, no matter what it looks like at the moment, and to trust in change and progress. It’s a practice to remember that within each setback, be it disappointment , injury, heartache or pain, there is growth, renewal and room for exploration and discovery.

In class, I chose to be curious. Curious as to how my body would respond to yoga. Curious to see if I could stand strong and accept the new, unhurried pace I walk and move through my days.

Our perceptions are so often within our control. How we choose to see and approach our world leads us into our future. The lesson isn’t new, but it’s always harder to put into practice. So I’m curious, what new perception will you explore today?