I lay in bed this morning, waking up a few minutes before having to get up. I could see my wheelchair, parked off to the side outlined by the faint light of morning. I felt this powerful sense of gratitude towards it. Even in the dimness of the light, I could see the wear and tear of travel and of constant use. I could see bumps and bruises, the lost arm rest, the ripped seat, the worn out rubber on the tires.
And I loved it.
It's taken me to the Yukon and to Florida to San Francisco and Vancouver and Edmonton and New York and Halifax and Boston and London and now Newcastle Upon Tyne. Even this list is abbreviated ... so many other places, so many other events, it's taken me there, it's brought me home.
It's part of me, even when it's sitting across the room from me, in early morning, waiting.
It's part of my identity, even when I'm not in it.
It frees me, to be here now, to do what I am going to do today.
They say it confines me, and maybe it does ... to a life of freedom, and of movement and of participation.
A few minutes later, I am up, shaving, showering and sitting here writing this. All done in the chair that waited for me all night.
I owe the life I have to a part of me that others see, but simply can't understand.