I heard a story recently about a dinner party, a rich guy and I think it was a poet. Perhaps it was a story on the occasion of the recent death of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. The telling of tales not being my strong suit, I'll just skip to the punch line which was, "I have one thing that he'll never have." "What's that?" "Enough."
And so in the vein of self-flagellation, I am hear to report that despite my enforced convalescence, I have not managed to read the entire stack of books on my night table. Nor have I been able to do the writing I would have hoped for. Where does the time go? I can't say. Moving from food prep (that is the sound of the Vitamix, you hear) to the chair to elevate my leg, to doing some silly little errand in order to stave off going stir-crazy, to sleeping, and then back again...and so the days pass. Not as "productively" as I may want, but trying to remember that the REAL work is happening internally and we're just trying to create the environment where that can happen most expeditiously. A lot like what I tell my massage clients, so maybe I should listen to my own advice.
I think that I have also begun to realize or accept that we are not moving backwards. We do not want to get back to normal. We want to get to something better. Or at the least I accept accept that we are headed to someplace different. And that's ok. It is what we make it. So let's try to make it something better. And let's put an end to the judgments, even of the expectations for ourselves.
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