about falling
I’m thankful for the sky and for gravity and for the bottom of my feet and the reliability of my eyes, especially after I’ve fallen twice in the last month and tumbled onto my right knee and elbow and needed to recover before folding myself back into standing after being splayed face down on sidewalks that I know well, that I have traveled plenty. Is this what aging looks like? Going over familiar ground and still being tripped up by it?
The first fall happened outside of my mother’s apartment building just as I spoke a hands-free, Bluetooth “hello!” to a dear friend, the one who had offered to schedule a support call while I was in Houston. Down the sidewalk of the senior-living apartments, two woman walked ahead of me, steadily steering their walkers forward. Across the street in the church parking lot, the infamous centenarian balanced his chi for the world to see.
My friend and I were just settling into the joy of each other’s voices when BLAM! I went down before I knew it, like I had at least a dozen times in my life with the turn of what a pediatrician had once called a weak ankle. Had I stepped on an acorn hidden under a leaf? Let my attention fail me where my left ankle met a crack in the pavement? Blacked out? Who knows. What I do know is that no one came running. I listened for signs of concern and counted the silent seconds. Get up before anyone notices! I chided myself. Why did I not welcome rescue? I’d lived most of my life without a safety net, hedging my bets and figuring that everything would work out. I’d lived a lifetime of not letting other people know what ailed me. Why?
The second fall happened a week later, back at home on a midday walk with the dogs. I had opted to walk phone-free under the most reliable presence in my life, the sky. A pile of leaves hid the sidewalk, and I crunched through them with my eye on the dogs as they sniffed the ground near the fence separating the sidewalk from the schoolyard and its children at play. BLAM! Again. Prostrate, with the bed of leaves in flight around me, I felt for the leashes. I had let them both go in the fall. Without speaking, I looked at the dogs, who had moved toward my sidewalked face to investigate its strange, new position. I reached for the leashes first and clutched them close, then listened for onlookers. I heard nothing but my own groans as I forced myself to stand. The dogs trotted back into walking position. What a mess I was, the crackled leaves in clumps, imprinted on the entire right side of my pants and my right forearm up to the elbow. Brush yourself off, woman, I told myself. And then walk on. Keep moving. And watch where you’re going.The Mantras of the Fallen demanded me home.
Within an hour, the ankle was swollen to the size of a ripe persimmon. The dogs drew near as I rested on the sofa with a bag of ice placed on the throbbing, fleshy mound. Immobility had rearranged my spirit. My eyes reached through the back window to the promise of sky as I sought for a question that would help me not to judge myself harshly. Whether the answer would be simple or complicated, my wonder took me to a starting place.
The dogs perked their ears as I spoke in confidence to the silence: What is it I shall learn from falling?
