The Art of the Lesson

The morning walk was largely uneventful on the surface, because the most marvelous things happened inside me. I learned that more than one morning is going to begin with an overwhelming apathy and weakness. By the time I finished my course, the reason was clear. As William Arthur Ward, the inspirational author, once said, "Learning is more than absorbing facts, it is acquiring understanding." 

There are many mornings when I awake refreshed but in searing pain. Today was one, I figured because the temperature at around 6 a.m., was about 56 degrees. The pain level in the knees was at ten. That is how they often respond to the cold. I felt drained of energy. I blamed that on the rigorous events of the past weekend. I searched my mind for a couple of times for convenient-yet-convictioned excuses not to make the rounds. There were none.

I moaned and grumbled through the pain to pull on long johns, knee wraps, sweat pants, a T-shirt, and fleece jacket, then moved downstairs for the trek. I grabbed my water bottle and went into

the chilled morning air. There was almost no breeze. The air felt fresh. Although my legs moved as if each foot was bound in cement, I began the walk.

I won't make my movements into any special drama. They happen every day with various versions of the same pain. In fact, the only outwardly remarkable fact during this morning's walk was the absence of other joggers and walkers.  I was almost alone around the circuit. There were only two of the regulars.

Inside my chest were peculiar rumblings. I felt out of breath a couple of times, but pushed the weakness aside with concentration on the steps. It is important to listen to your body during exercise, yet you should not baby yourself. Every pinch, pull and wheeze carries clues about the nature of one's health. I logged each one, but remained determined. 

When the interruption came near breathlessness, I took a swig of water, and the symptoms subsided. When the knee pain climbed a notch, I focused more on the goal - the midway point - a bench outside the local Starbucks. I made it, and took a pause.

Homeward, on the second leg of the walk, the pace was really slow. At times I labored to take a step. I gave myself a rule - don't stop. One foot in front of the other, my eyes on the greenery, ponds, wild birds and bright sun. The house's front door hung in the back of my mind. 

The trick worked, but the energy levels continued to drop. I felt the breathlessness. Lola, my inner voice told me to take the short cut to my street, because I was likely to pass out. I argued with her. She gently repeated the advice. I focused on the way the sun bounced off the empty sidewalks and glistened against the pond. The environs became a haze more than an image. Lola won.

Well, I made it to the front door of my house, none the worse for the trial. I reflected on the incident, yet the cause was not clear.

After about ten minutes, I said, "I need to eat." I did not feel hungry, yet the thought uncharacteristically blunt. My tone held a tinge of desperation. I ate and recovered.

At times, we all have to pass through an experience and reflect, which is the real art of the lesson. Learning comes from reflection. Understanding comes with application. 

Mine was that I should check my blood glucose levels before exercise. I know. That is Diabetes101. I am normally so in control of the disease, my sugar level would have been my last choice as a source for a problem. 

As Ward stated, this little tale is about experience and understanding.  Take the story as a primer on how to learn about yourself. Consider the many signs inside and outside that the body offers during the day. Think about how often you pass up a chance to learn. Reflection on experiences can be a great teacher, unless you are afraid to understand.