Last week I had to rest my foot so much, that though I read and screened, and tried to find some ways to use time well and stay in touch with news, I’d little other on my mind than getting back to walking. That was such an occupier, rate of mend inclined each stanza, overused, redundant too, till I was just as bored with it as you.
On Tuesday last, before I left my place, I iced my slowly-mending foot again. I thought the wound was healing, but the pace of my recovery was dismal-slow. I had to be upright to wash my face, to brush my teeth, to necessary-walk. My age retards, but I could see a trace of normal dorsum. Still unsure of when, I took to making social plans, in case.
The benefit to penning notes like these (most days a rhyming form of diaries) is I can scan the posts I’ve left behind, and let those metered syllables remind me clearly of a symptom suffered, which I thought might be forever. So the itch persistent on my neck and chest abated – a month from now, foot pain may be outdated.
What can I do, when weather’s cold and gray although we’ve passed the very end of May, and age requires weeks instead of days to mend a little injury? Just praise my fortune that I have this cozy home, the leisure to compose a little poem, the funds to buy and time to cook my food, the easy chair to foster gratitude.
Two weeks ago, when first I hurt my foot, I little thought how long I’d be impaired. I wore new shoes and carelessly I put my step so balance went, discomfort flared. And probably I should have then bewared and stopped my forward motion, sat a spell. But I walked on (as if 15, I dared). I paid for that – my foot is still unwell.
I taught a roommate how to binge on food when I was 17. We walked around and cycled flavors with an attitude that we’d amend our ways and diet soon. As old as 58, I even skewed to overeat once more before a shift to moderation, ceding to a mood rebellious. Such a plan now years confound – by reflux, bloat and rapid gain endued.
Restriction here promotes expansion there, inducing mindfulness as I adjust. No driving means inhaling more fresh air. Eschewing meat necessitates some thought about the way I buy and order fare. And taking time away from screens and phone enheartens me to amplify the care of me, to try the methods undiscussed when I’m allowed to wander anywhere.
Suspecting it when I was yet a youth, the years of college formed the certainty: critique contains few instances of truth – coincidence is common – one can see significance in number, or can be convinced with tint or tone, by phrase and word. The Internet now spurs – velocity and breadth are amplifying the absurd.
He says his ego died but that’s a lie. He claims he’s not depressed – we don’t see how that statement can be other than a try. He’s prompt to self-aggrandize even now, and though the damage showed him how to cry, his posture doesn’t stop attempts to bow. But sadly those direct his eyes to see his feet, and not his anguished family.
A 20-something in our H.O.A. reported someone planting in the yard. In fact the man was weeding – “He’s okay: if you don’t understand, just disregard.”
And then there’s New York Bill, who hasn’t dwelled on ground floor yet. He claims he doesn’t know a garden – horticulture never gelled for him. He’s clueless how to help things grow.
Incredible? A little weird to hear. It’s not that I expect a verdant thumb. But all the ignorance they volunteer appears to me an overdose of dumb. How many skills can humankind forget? The problem may not be the Internet.