Truth is often messy. It's complicated. Hard to blog about. Because truth- the whole of it- doesn't always dovetail into a post about rhubarb or biscuit dough. It isn't shiny and pastel sprinkled or predigested for your consumption. What I'm feeling lately is raw and no doubt undercooked, and I'm not even sure I understand it. So, what, exactly, is it?
Things I lost in the fall.
Besides the ability to straddle, to jog up the patio steps, to dance to the Talking Heads while stirring onions, to heft groceries from the back seat, lug heavy Mexican chairs over into the sun, to reach the top edge of a five-foot canvas and lay down a swath of color, walk back, step forward, add more paint, back up, mix color (do this for hours). Or even just sit on the floor. Cross my legs. Curl up in a chair with a book.
To stand for more than ten minutes without assistance (read: cane).
But it's more than these things, even. More than the physical struggle back to a modified semblance of wholeness. It's the acidic sensation of sliding backwards in time, losing ground you worked so hard to get to, to claim as your own. The foothold that didn't come easy to a questioning hyper-vigilant child. A cultivated center of pure confidence. The belief in I am here. Entitlement.
The right to take up floorspace and wall space, to carve out time, spend money on materials. Make mistakes, explore, discover. Play. To start over somewhere new and unfamiliar. The right to disappoint someone else. To confuse them. To place someone else's needs next to your own- instead of in front of your own.
More was broken than a hip.
And ten months later, I am still mending. Not just knitting marrow and stretching fifty-year old muscles that knot and resist. There are invisibles I have lost.
And I am no longer bold enough, or naive enough, to simply assume I'll get them back.
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