One morning I left my home for my usual walk before work. As I approached the corner of the block, I saw from afar a petite, elderly woman—perhaps in her seventies— in a black wheelchair alone. Her neck was turning left and right as she surveyed the sparse traffic in the neighborhood. I greeted her.
“Good morning, young man.” she said in reply.
I made a left at the interaction and did not think much of our exchange. As my back was about to turn against her, I heard her voice again.
“I wish I could do that… walking continuously.” she said.
She chuckled with a bitter smile on her face, as she rotated the wheelchair towards me. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I nodded, smiled for a second, and walked on.
For the rest of my walk, I watched my own legs swing like pendulums. Left, right. And left, then right again. I have lived 11,000 days thus far, but I can’t think of another time I marveled at my legs’ biodynamics.
This reminds me of how much I often take my life for granted. When was the last time I put my palm on my chest? Do I recognize my own heart beat: its rhythm, its warmth, and its strength? Do I see how the blood moves through an extraordinary circulatory system that makes my life possible, even though I don’t pay remote attention to it every day? My functioning heart is a dream for a patient with heart failure. It may also be my dream at some point in the future.
The woman I met lost the ability to do something she was once able to. She remembers the days when she could explore, wander, and run. Maybe going for a morning jog, getting lost in a new city, or simply climbing into the bathtub on her own.
Someday we will be like her. Our physical abilities—walking, writing, and breathing—will eventually be fade. This limitation sounds poignant, but it can be a beautiful thing. It reminds us to do something with our lives today. If we live forever, there’s no point in doing anything now.