In the morning after open gym, I move each body part carefully before I sit up in bed. Shoulders tender. Neck tight. Not bad.
Last night as we chatted, I kneeled and sat back on my heels. I almost never sit like that. It's uncomfortable. But as I ease all the way to my heels, something pops in my right knee. The snap of scar tissue. Thought I'd cracked that all away by now.
I stand a bit nervously. Test my limbs. Remind myself that maybe they're not as stable as they feel when I'm walking or running. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm finding other ways to fly.
But you'll find me here again, regardless.
To fill the void left by NaNo, I've started my own challenge: a December of poetry. Thirty-one poems in thirty-one days.
Back in March I wrote that I didn't consider myself a poet, and listed the reasons why. Well, now I take it back.
If I can write without agony, that's the same as going for a smooth run or learning a new skill successfully. Sure, there are more hard times than easy. But times of ease don't take away the title.
Declare it so: I am a poet.