Road to Enfeeblement

The Road to Enfeeblement

How does it begin?

The spokes of the wheel on the one-horse-shay never even began to give way.

In this mortal flesh and blood body, is it the subtle increase of arthritic pain, the limitation of range of motion in certain joints, or the increasing awareness that memory and hearing definitely are not what they used to be that signals we’ve just switched over from cruisin’ the highway of life - in relative comfort with good brakes, shock absorbers, and mileage - to the less desirable byway I’ve named The Road to Enfeeblement?

I’m hopeful Enfeeblement is not a destination close at hand, for you or me, but one never knows, do one?

When illness or injury happen, what can we do to find our way back, at least temporarily, to cruise speed on the more desirable highway?

What practices are tried and true?

What’s really working for you?

Yoga’s always been my go-to.

Meditation too.

In a stew? Self-reflective writing will do.

Walking, dancing, following through

On all those lists of things to-do

Hike with a buddy, Epsom soak, massage

Healing with the feeling that illness is a passage

Giving thanks for every bit of function I enjoy

Helps me find compassion for each girl and boy

As we encounter one another on the road

Can we stop and offer help with a heavy load?

Viewing up close and personal the reality of each stage

Of life may help prepare us for the decrepitude of age.

We don’t have to like it, but can we find some grace

To help us on our travels and the pot holes we all face?


Making time for the practices beyond the distractions and resistance is quite a trick, eh?

Maybe our equations need a revamp. If I factor myself into the equation of twenty four hours I’m allotted every day, I hum along so much better than if I drop that factor out.

Jokingly, I’ve been known to say, “If I did everything I want to do first thing in the morning, it would take me until four O’clock in the afternoon!”

Guess what? No joke, I’ve found I must do at least one of those practices each twenty four hours, or else… or else the spokes on the wheel begin to creak, splinter, and give way to enfeeblement.

Busy as I may be with projects for the house, the occasional client, personal care, writing, time with the Grandie, music, friend/family support, socializing, gardening, etc., I have to remember that in my world, I am a hub for my personal wheel. If I’m off balance, it’s a rough ride!

Oh, and coffee helps. I get so much more accomplished on those days I imbibe!

Sleep is a tonic, lest my speed become super-sonic.

Hug a hub central
Let me stay ventral
Like a bubble bursts all at a go
Let me evaporate fast, not slow!


Below is the original poem of inspiration...


“The One Hoss Shay"
by 
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1858)

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it ah, but stay
I 'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,

A chaise breaks down but doesn't wear out
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
The deacon inquired of the village folk

That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
"Naow she'll dew"
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
"She was a wonder, and nothing less"

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,

"Deacons and deaconesses dropped away"
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

Eighteen-hundred...
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; --it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

and FIFTY-FIVE...
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
Its hundredth year

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You 're welcome. No extra charge.)

"A general flavor of mild decay"
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
"In another hour it will be worn out"

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. - Off went they.

"The parson takes a drive"
The parson was working his Sunday's text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill
"All at once the horse stood still"

- First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
"something decidedly like a spill"

-- What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
"Just as bubbles do when they burst"

End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
"End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay"