Wings to Fly

"Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?" -- Frida Kahlo.

I came across this quote during some aimless surfing of the Net early this morning. I don't even remember what site I was on; I think it was Pinterest. I read these words, and I felt an instant connection: it was a pull in my chest, a Yes, a Thank you, a feeling of having heard exactly what I needed to hear without even knowing I needed it.

Let me tell you something, honestly: it's hard to be disabled. I laugh and joke; I make light of it and brush it off, but it's hard. It hurts and restricts; it curtails even the simplest of desires. How does one make a snowman from a wheelchair, for instance? I get out of bed every morning and put my feet on the floor, and something on my body hurts. There are days I can barely manage ten steps before my quads start to scream or my ankle cramps up and gives out, landing me on the floor. I go places with my family and always end up trailing behind, exhausted and aching while they're still enjoying themselves. I put on a smile and say I'm having fun too, because no one likes a killjoy, but at a certain point all I'm thinking is, When can I sit down? 

The older I get, the harder it is. The more afraid I become. There will be a day when I can no longer walk at all, and that thought terrifies me beyond all semblance of reason. It keeps me awake at night. I get scared. I get angry. I wrestle with self-pity and a feeling of universal unfairness. Sometimes I cry with longing, just a clean, simple longing to walk down the street straight and unaided with my chin up, no pain or fatigue to slow me down.

At times like that, I really have to look for hope. I have to actively seek it. I have a private reserve of dignity and strength to draw upon, and as my life plays out I add things to it. The quote by Frida Kahlo hit me square in the chest, and I have pulled it into myself and made it a part of my hope. Everyone seeks something to identify with, something to ease that sense of being utterly alone we all feel sometimes, something to counteract the fear. Frida did it through words and art, and I thank her for it. Next time I look down at my twisted feet and feel the urge to cry, I can say to them, 

"Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?"

It may not sound like much, but it is. It really is.