Trying to make sense of this summer

I’m trying to make sense of this summer. 

It’s been — and still is — a very lonely summer. 

Three months ago I was terrified of what this summer might bring — all the loneliness, the grief, the sense of loss, especially given that I wouldn’t be able to do many of my favorite activities because of my UCL injury and gum surgery. 

It’s hasn’t been as bad as I feared. 

But it also hasn’t been as good as I hoped, as good as I tried to make it. 

When I learned, and finally accepted, that I wouldn’t be able to climb or ride my motorcycle (two of my favorite activities) for three months because of my UCL injury, I set out to give myself other goals, to make alternatives plans, including a half-marathon this weekend, my first full-marathon in October, and bagging fourteeners over the summer. But logistic obstacles have kept me from bagging fourteeners; another, recent, injury is preventing me from doing the half-marathon this weekend (one of the few with non-binary category and awards) and has actually kept me from running or hiking at all for two weeks now; and if this injury doesn’t get resolved soon, I won’t be able to do my first full marathon in October (a goal that means a lot to me since I’d like to do it while I’m still 42, before I turn 43 in November). 

The surgeries on my left thumb and gums, with their recoveries, and all the other old injuries flaring up now that I’m tackling with physical therapy have also kept me from traveling or exploring much. 

So many of the things for which I enjoy the summer, that make me feel so alive — the outdoor activities in the heat and sunshine and with long days of sunlight; the traveling; the exploring; the hanging out with friends outdoors and socializing — have been barred for me this summer. 

I’ve been spending most of the time by myself. Running between doctor’s appointments, doing physical therapy to try and get my body to not fall apart, making plans that then get ruined and fail. And I’ve been reading a lot. Reading tons. Reading like I hadn’t in years, devouring books, partly living vicariously through them (is that healthy?), partly finding myself reflected in them, finally understanding new or old parts of myself, finding words to define myself and describe the world more clearly. In that sense, this summer has been a summer of self-therapy for me. 

Maybe that’s what this summer is supposed to be for me, or what I can make of it? A summer of healing? Healing both physically from a multitude of injuries and mentally/emotionally from inner wounds? A summer of self-discovery, even while sitting still in this house, in this town? 

“Life is made of moments”, says the climbing buddy to whom I feel the closest. 

This summer has definitely had “moments” for me: like the ones in Salt Lake City visiting my Ragnar buddy; like the week when my European friend from grad school visited me here in Colorado; like the evenings out with my non-binary friend listening to local musicians play live; or the dip in the creek and walk&talks along the creek with my non-binary transmasc friend; or the dip in the creek and photo-shoot with my friend visiting from California; or the hikes in new places with my climbing buddies temporarily turned “hiking buddies” because of my UCL injury; or the solid presence of my neighboring running buddy. These were all beautiful, meaningful moments.

And there’s been healing. A lot of healing. I know it, I can feel it, some of it is still happening even now, I can feel it unfold within me.

But were those moments enough? Is this healing enough? 

Why is it bugging me, why does it hurt, that this is all I’m getting this summer?