one hour at a time

I drew the hermit card which is all about delving
into self-prudence, awareness, loneliness. I'm reading
a book by Natalie Goldberg called "A Long Quiet
Highway."  She is a writer and Zen Buddhist whom talks
about the need to be completely present in order to
reach inside yourself to produce writing. I'm working
on being quiet. I sit outside nestled under piles of
fleece in the cold, cold sunny days. I read. Listen to
the birds. Throw a ball (not far) for Millet to fetch.
Of course, I have my lapses. I cry. My leg is
awakening... pins and needles, nerve tinglies and a
dull, aching pain. My knee keeps popping as I shift my
weight to find a comfortable spot and a pocket of sleep.
This worries me a little, but there is no discomfort
accompanying it, just noise.

In the morning, I take vitamins and supplements, sometimes
get a shower aided by my mother, a plastic chair, hand
held shower head and a trash bag taped over my knee-high
cast. I descend the long and steep staircase on my butt-
one step, slowly, then another, leg held ahead of me,
straight and heavy. If I start to chat, my mom stops me.
Focus. Each movement counts. After meals, hospital
ordained exercises, facebook revelry, et al I again
handle the stairs. Going up is a little harder,
especially at the end of a long and listless, yet
exhausting, day.

I am thankful for my strength. It allows me to balance as
I brush my teeth and get up from the floor and back on my
crutches after ass-ascending to bed. My arms carried me-
sideways crutching- down the aisle of an airplane to the
very last row of seats, the ones by the bathroom where
everyone peers at you while they're waiting to pee. I am
worried to lose this strength. As my muscles atrophy,
however, my mental resolve will flourish.