​When we moved to Beacon about fourteen years ago, my life began to change. We wanted to leave Westchester. We had a baby and didn’t want him to grow up in Pelham, a bedroom city where we didn’t fit, either because of our income or because of our way of thinking. Beacon was affordable and had a life of its own. As soon as we closed on the new house, we began the transfer.
Beacon’s location is enviable: on the banks of the Hudson river, at the foot of Mount Beacon, and close to Hide Park and the Roosevelt and Vanderbilt estates. Scenic Hudson, the non-profit organization that concerns with renovating public spaces to bring residents closer to nature, have done a great job. They’ve transformed the banks of the Hudson into green parks, among others, Long Dock Park, one of my favorite places to go. Long Dock Park constituted my first stop when I started to work on Vida en la tierra (Life on Earth). Those visits were my initial contact with nature; they made me appreciate it, and Beacon. I learned the difference between living in the country and living in the city; I experienced the calming effect of the greenery, the river, and the silence. Eric, Nathan, and I would go the Riverfront Park (a very large park on the Hudson) or Long Dock to walk, swim, or listen to live concerts. I think I never enjoyed myself more than by sitting on the grass in front of the river and listening to music.
Then I got the injury. Since then, I’ve been going on the deck every day when the days are sunny and mild. Spending my time there, sitting in the wheelchair and feeling the lawn, leaves, and fruits keeping me company, gives me a sense of peace. Whenever I feel angry, impatient, or depressed I resort to the best cure – diving into nature. While I’m watching the trees around me, my mind travels to the Long Dock trail by the river, where I used to stroll in the spring. I picture high trunks climbing to the sky; others, twisted, brushing the soil; and yet others, split in two, that look like a nine-armed Hydra. And a soothing stillness embraces me. And I stay there for hours, and go back in search of comfort.
 
 

​Every day since more than four years ago, I’ve been doing exercises morning and evening, one day after the other. Following the guidance of the therapists at the outpatient rehab center, Eric and I organized the exercises in different groups, depending on the region of the body and the actions they targeted. My working day, then, is divided into different stages, and I do them every day. Every day I concentrate hard on swallowing without choking, on singing at the right volume, and on pronouncing words correctly. When it’s time for the body, I try to wake up my sleeping limbs: left upper arm, forearm, wrist, and hand, up to my fingertips; and left buttock, thigh, lower leg, ankle, and foot.
And every time I do my exercises, I have a goal in my mind: to strengthen a special muscle that was paralyzed after my injury. To fulfill that goal, I’ve had to focus my mind on that muscle; in my friend Elizabeth Castagna’s words, I’ve had to make my mind speak to it. When I’m resting, I meditate following the directions of the guide’s voice (as I tell in another chapter). And as I’m breathing, I focus on each muscle or organ of my body that the guide indicates.
So, every year, every day, every time since the injury, my mind has had to concentrate on my body’s different elements. That’s why wherever I am, a sense of my body is there with me: a sense of my whole body, of my whole self. I feel my body; I know where every part of it, every muscle, is. Every muscle is speaking to me, and I can hear it.