I'm at an age where I have more aches and pains than ever. I've also noticed I feel them less when I'm happy.
And the pain isn't all age-related. I was diagnosed with juvenile arthritis at age 10, and my rheumatologist told my parents that while my prognosis might be good, I also might wind up using a wheelchair more than my legs.
Flash forward a few decades, and I'm in good shape considering. Still, my knees tend to ache and my back can get testy, so I'm focused on losing weight to take unnecessary strain off them.
One weekend, I took my kids to Northern Michigan and we spent a day on Mackinac Island. I'm a native Michigander, and Mackinac Island is my restoration place. Cars are not allowed there unless you're a police officer or emergency responder, and horses, carriages, bikes and feet are the only means of transportation for regular folk. I was struck by how joyful I felt and by how gratifying it was to reintroduce my kids to a place they hadn't been since they were barely more than toddlers.
We walked everywhere that weekend - up and down streets, up and down hills, and up and down long stretches of beach. That's when it dawned on me: I wasn't in much pain.
Could it be that my mood was overriding my pain? The only place I drew the line was in climbing Castle Rock in St. Ignace, Michigan. I don't know that it was as much a pain issue as it was stamina, since Castle Rock is almost 200 feet high. My son did it though, and I vowed to him that in 2021, we'll climb it together.
But I'm meandering, as one does in Northern Michigan.
I was thinking that if I were awarded an all expense paid trip to Paris, and it rained for most of the trip, I'd probably still be thrilled just to be there. I'd be thinking how picturesque Paris is with its streets all shiny and wet and how fascinating Parisians are to watch, darting in and out of shops and clutching their umbrellas. Of course the Parisians, there all the time, would be all down in the mouth because it's raining. Maybe they'd be wishing they were in Miami Beach.
So if Parisians can get bummed when they live someplace fabulous, maybe the rest of us can
be expected to when we live someplace mundane - mundane to us anyway. Could it be as simple as choosing to find what we need from our surroundings, and, by extension, our lives?
Van Gogh painted pastures and stars and flowers and life until the day he suddenly didn’t. While he lived, he breathed color into his lungs and exhaled it onto canvass. He gazed at starry skies and walked through fields as yellow as the sun.
I choose to be a live Van Gogh every day I possibly can.
I'm writing this on Christmas Eve at the end of one of the most challenging years I can remember.
My mother passed away in February, a friend died by suicide in September, another died the night before Thanksgiving, an old schoolmate lost her baby granddaughter to a rare genetic disorder, and another friend lost one sister only to have another nearly die in a car accident just weeks later.
And that wasn't all of it. There were other serious illnesses and even deaths among those close to me this year.
Then, like wolves, arthritis took me down, and these days I use a cane on bad days.
Christmas has a way of stroking our cheeks with the faux fur of holiday stockings, then snapping our bare backsides with Santa's big belt. We find joy in how children wonder over Christmas and then grieve over our own memories of it and just about everything else - the sad, the sweet, the bittersweet. Those memories crystallize into something needle-like and pierce straight into us like thorns on mistletoe.
A very wise woman once told me that something positive comes from everything that happens to us, no matter how tragic. After some introspection, I'm thinking she's right.
I challenge you to find at least one good thing to come from any memory haunting you this Christmas. Whether it's a lesson learned, a more compassionate self, a ripple effect that's touched others in positive ways, I believe you can find at least that one good thing and maybe more.
Take me and my arthritis. I don't know how this'll all go down in the long run, but for now, I'm taking it as a scary, painful wake-up call to lose weight, eat better, and move more. I've joined my local Y and am reaping the benefits of swimming, including less pain, more flexibility and a bit more muscle definition in my back. And I'm learning that there are lots of treatment options available to me and that remission is a real possibility.
I'm also looking at my cane with new eyes and finding that it almost cozies up the entryway. It leans against a table that holds candles and family photos. I think of my Aunt Izzy who lived not only with arthritis but a severe hand tremor. But those things didn't stop her from cooking and baking and lighting our lives with laughter and wit and fun well into her nineties. She's the one who smiled at her nieces and nephews just before she passed, telling them that she was having "such a wonderful death."
I'm choosing - and some days it's hard - to believe that having arthritis might ultimately boost my quality of life as well as my longevity because it's forcing me to make better choices about my health.
And you? What light has come to you because of the dark?
Whatever it is, may it guide you to a better Christmas - this year and for all the years to come.
And the pain isn't all age-related. I was diagnosed with juvenile arthritis at age 10, and my rheumatologist told my parents that while my prognosis might be good, I also might wind up using a wheelchair more than my legs. 
