Author: Katherine Tandy Brown

When I moved to the South Carolina Lowcountry nearly 13 years ago, I was already deeply in love with its luscious expanses of water, diverse species of wildlife and waterfowl, marsh that reflected an ever-changing palette akin to that of Vincent Van Gogh, and an amazingly wide sky so often lit by daily sunshine and cluttered with fat, puffy clouds that would’ve probably inspired Georgia O’Keefe to set up an easel on the Beaufort River Bluff to capture their glory.

Years ago, a wise spiritual teacher told me that relationships, whether family, friend or intimate, offer us humans a terrific opportunity for growth. As well as I understood his words at the time, that made sense.

Though the exact date of the origin of meditation is unknown, archaeologists and scholars agree that the practice has been around for at least 5,000 years. Chances are slim that anything without credibility would have survived for that length of time.

“Katherine, Frances just went into Hospice care. If you want to see her, you’d better come soon.” My stomach dropped. My dear college friend had been battling breast cancer, and I’d hoped her eternally-positive attitude and good fortune would eventually win out. Her body, it seemed, had other plans.

Eons ago, Greek philosopher Socrates proffered that “To know thyself is the beginning of wisdom.” Sounds easy enough. L. Frank Baum agreed in 1900 when he co-wrote The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Remember his message? That you already have answers to all your questions inside you, especially those big-sucker life puzzles.

The third week of April, I was writing a story with a day or two left before deadline. Plenty of time, as long as I kept tapping those laptop keys. The weather was luscious. Seems that last rain washed out a good deal of the excessive pollen that our Lowcountry humidity had trapped in its sticky molecules. The sun shone warm and bright; fat, opalescent clouds skittered across a powdery blue background, temps hovered in the low 70s, and a soft breeze whispered just enough to keep tiny, bitey insects at bay. 

To date, I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t have at least one regret. An “if only” worthy of a do-over. Many of us have lots, which we often enumerate at least mentally so frequently that residing in the past has become a habit, no matter the time that has elapsed since the “transgression.”

Yes, I know the title is a cliché, and clichés are no-no’s for writers…that is, unless they work. As I’m sure you know, a cliché is a phrase or opinion that’s overused and betrays a lack of original thought. That may well be true but this phrase fits the topic beautifully and I’m using it. That topic is exercise. 

A note to readers: Since this particular column is a second half of the previously-published one, my co-columnist, Chris “Sutty” Suddeth and I decided to break our every-other-issue writing pattern and publish this one back-to-back with its predecessor. Sutty will offer his wisdom on another topic in the following two issues of Lowcountry Weekly. Fair enough! 

Life circumstances spared me the experience of heart-deep grief until I’d completed my university degree, and equal measures of courage and foolhardiness led me to become a Thoroughbred exercise rider for several years. In Saratoga a woman with whom I worked and shared a house became a good friend.