With the doors both open, I can hear the baby birds living in my gutters.  I give a brief moment of regret knowing that when the gutters are cleaned tomorrow, those infants could be displaced.  I think, surely the Smith brothers will work around that nest, but then let go of the worry.  Que sera, sera.

I pad around the house with ginger-footed, wincing steps.  My hips protest the new stepper but I keep at it, pushing for a scant ten minutes, twice a day.  To the able-bodied that would seem like a waste of time.  But by six minutes, my chest heaves and my eyes roll backwards.  I know my limits.  A doctor once speculated that I burn 20% more fuel just walking through a room than a person without my challenges.  But I forge ahead.  I had too many indolent years, when my joints stiffened and my thick unhealthy blood pooled in my veins.  Whether thin or heavy, if I do not move, I will die.  Like a shark only wearing a weak smile.

So I put the dog out, turn on the Food Network, and climb on the stepper.  I don’t need to count steps but I do anyway just to keep my mind focused.  The machine and I have different standards for what constitutes a “step” though; I get to 80 while it lags behind at 40.  No matter:  the seconds keep counting, I keep stepping, all the while hearing my mother’s voice:  Walk every day of your life, and you will walk every day of your life.  Keep walking.

Behind my mother’s exhortations come the more lilting, gentle tones of Becky Holsen, a most excellent yoga instructor:  Breathe . .  breathe . . . breathe.  Don’t forget to breathe.

It’s the twelfth day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.