I have stepped into a world I knew almost nothing about. Having hurt my knee a few months back, my doctor recommended physical therapy. I made some appointments with a practice nearby. As it happens, I had driven there a few years ago, to take an elderly woman who needed help with balance.  

 

It is remarkable to have women pay loving attention to my range of motion, and areas of weakness. The room is filled with colorful stretchy bands, large rubber balls, and squishy pillows that make standing difficult. A few times a week, therapists invite me to wake up muscles that have been coasting a long time. It is hard, in a good way.

 

The other day as I walked through twenty repetitions of side kicks I noticed something. The people who were there as clients were over fifty or perhaps sixty. Like me. The ones offering guidance were all less than forty, or maybe thirty. I found this comforting, as if it is not a sign of failure that my ankles need more practice in supporting me. 

 

Because it is local, I often see someone I know who is also there for an hour of playing with big rubber bands. This, too, is reassuring, to feel like this is the human condition to need support from people who have memorized the skeletal system. 

 

Recently an older couple agreed to spend time with a younger couple, for the purpose of supporting their marriage. For an hour a month they will listen well, and talk about ways the their relationship has stretched them. Mentoring is not so different from physical therapy. 

 

This week I had finished the exercise involving standing on one foot which was surprisingly difficult when I closed my eyes. I said I was tired and ready to leave a few minutes early. 

 

"Flamingoed out?" Erin smiled. 

 

I was. But I will go back tomorrow. Because I need the support.