It's all relative
I have learned that physical pain is not always a pejorative feeling. It is not always bad in my book, as it used to be. Last weekend, I biked for the first time in months. Obviously the weather during winter has a lot to do with not biking, but my health interferes as well. All I really needed to do that day was buy lemongrass from a particular grocery store in Park Slope, to which I would bike. Instead, I did the bike loop in Prospect Park. It was one of those days when the temperature was supposed to reach the fifties, but it never did. Nonetheless, everyone still pretends that it is spring. The outside tables come out, albeit with wintercoat-wearing patrons. Prospect Park was packed, even though with windchill it was probably in the low forties.

My legs ached within minutes, my lungs sucked in all the air they could. I look around at all the people and think of myself asking them, "Do you know how almost miraculous this is for me to be here? How difficult it was to get to this point, physically and mentally?" Of course I don't ask, and they don't know, and I guess there could be many of them wondering the same things about themselves. I didn't dress appropriately for the weather, but I never do because I get hot so easily. The wind against my ears, which doubled because of the speed of my biking, gave me temporary earaches. When I hit the downhill spot, where you go past the beautiful pond, tears streamed down my face because of the cold air. It was a relevant reaction anyway, as that's my favorite part of the ride and I have missed it so much.. There were thousands of sea gulls on the water, dotting the pond with white as I went by. I started to notice particular trees, still without any leaves, that I remember during my fall bike rides. I looked at one and thought to myself, you're the one that will turn orange first; you're the one that will turn red when all the other trees are naked. Those leaves made me want to live again last year.

The lemongrass wasn't at the grocery store, but I laughed at the same "lemon glass" sign anyway. And I like looking at the homemade tofu soaking in water, the plentiful sprouts and lettuces. I found the lemongrass at a store 2 blocks from my house, which would have required a short walk and not a long diversion via bike. I didn't care. This was not wasted time or sweat or pain. It was all perfect. I was cooking, happily and excitedly, again. My mouth was still puckering at every food I put in it, after a week or two of barely eating. My gourmet vinegar-drenched olives sent spasms through my cheeks and tongue, but in another week, my mouth would be used to taking in food again.

That bike ride broke my already-broken body. My unsuspecting muscles torn, my nose running uncontrollably. Everything hurt, and yet, it was still good. As I got off my bike and walked it during the uphill part, watching a little kid bike on by me, I revelled in this pain. My weakened immune system will not bounce back easily from common aches like this, but I don't care. This is the pain not from sitting around in my house, but from getting outside. This is not intestinal pain that paralyzes me, but muscle pain that tells me to do this more regularly. This is pain from living, not merely pain from being alive. There is such a difference. I want to feel this today, tomorrow, the next day. I want it to hurt when I sit a certain way, I want bruises from hitting my shins on the bike pedals, I want cuts from carrying my bike down the stairs. I want to die because of the pains associated with my illness, but I want to live because of these kinds.