I found the muscle this morning that makes my belly hang out so far, while doing windmill kick. I seemed to be flexible this morning, so I kicked my right foot up to my left hand from the start, and then carried it over to my right hand. The stretch in my lower abdomen…
So amazing. Such hurt.
So naturally, I finished the form, and then I did a left-side windmill kick. The one I never do, because it’s not in the form.
I don’t think I’ve broken anything. It wasn’t that sort of pain. It was more like a joyous pain, like the two reunited sisters walking down Madison Avenue with us last night. They’d been separated at birth, and had only just found one another after all this time. What brought them together? Knitting! How we found them is part of the story of Andrew Carle’s and my epic walk through midtown on the east side of Manhattan, last night, but that will have to be another post.
This was a pain of a muscle that hasn’t been used in a long time, finally being invited to the party. It’s a remarkable beauty, and a frightening horror, that at forty-two I could still not know that there’s a lateral muscle there, along the curve under my belly, or what it does… Apparently, it controls the lateral swing of the legs, and it has some responsibility for the shape of my waistline. Even now, it’s singing a little, crying out to the world that, “I’m here! I’m here…,” like a lost child crying out for its parents.
But the kid is found, now. A few more repeated windmill kicks, on both sides, confirm for me that some tightness, some ancient tension, is finally letting go, and a new strength is building up.
It’s like, everything changes from here. Maybe that’s too dramatic, but that’s what it feels like.