Gut-Punch / Recovery

I had another setback today. An earnest young doctor explored my health history via video conferencing and hazarded a few guesses which could turn my world upside down. I let myself collapse into worry and stress over the situation. I reached out to someone who sent comfort mixed with gentle observation about my difficult nature. I died a thousand quiet deaths reading his words.

Then my phone died. I waded through the online customer service without success. I surrendered, struggled back down to the first level and started on chores which I should have been doing all afternoon. To round out an absolutely stellar day, I tried to pull a wedged book from a shelf and toppled backward, crashing into the door.

Luckily those years of falling lessons which my mother insisted on getting for me prevented serious injury. I stunned myself breathless and lay on the WELCOME mat, noticing that its writing faced inward. Not very welcoming, I thought, gritting my teeth and willing my lungs to kickstart. When I could breathe again, I hauled myself vertical using my little bench as a lever. I murmured thanks to my father for his sturdy copy of my great-grandfather’s original design.

I struggled into a sweatshirt and shoved my keys in a pocket. With a firm grasp on the walking stick which Katrina brought me from Colorado decades ago, I took myself out into the California sunshine and forced myself to do a partial circuit, down to the corner and back. As I approached my house, my neighbor Billy heralded me. We spent a few minutes talking about the shelter-in-place order, and whether we will ever return to a normal life. There among the many pots of flowers which he stood watering for another neighbor, Billy and I agreed that some things needed to change. We fell silent for a few minutes .

Billy said, I hope the world rises from this pandemic a better place than when it fell. Or words to that effect; and I agreed with him, then bade him good evening and took myself back into my tiny house.

It’s the seventeenth day of the seventy-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.

The Answer
BY SARA TEASDALE

When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:

“Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion—
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy.
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her—
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy.”