a calm mind

When I found out I would have these four days without kids in my life, I thought to myself -- my, that's going to be awfully quiet. But then I made plans: I would clean the house. I would downsize everything and reduce our (who am I kidding -- my) belongings by 25%. At least. I would get back to my Great Writing Project. I would finally get to the end of my who-done-it and find out who done it. I would rearrange Snowdrop's play space and create one for Sparrow, too. (A gate must go up! She has too many small pieces that are a hazard to him.) And that was just for day one.

But fate would have it that I would do none of those things.  

In fighting a cold and nursing my overused knee, I found myself letting go of lists. I needed the couch badly. We spent a content (if not jovial) four days together.

There are benefits to doing little when you're a tad incapacitated. You can concentrate on healing. And you can calm your mind.

My drip drip drippy state of yesterday is nearly behind me. My knee was on the road to a good mend too, until I sprinted to the barn this morning and wrecked it again. (A stretched or torn ligament, I later found out, can take months to mend. If you do this to yourself, take it easy afterwards, for Pete's sake!)

And so in these four days, I came into that dreamy calm space that is reserved for people who do not feel rushed in life. Retired people, or people who live in cultures that demand a slower gait. (I'll never forget that a walk from house to village in Ghana, which at my normal pace would take twenty minutes, usually took twice that. You must stop, greet, smile. Stop, greet, smile. If you are a local, you must add a good conversation to the mix.)

It is not true, of course, that in doing very little, you do nothing at all. Yesterday, for example, as I lay in bed thinking about how best to position my knee for the night, I heard it again -- our Great Horned Owl that lives just outside our bedroom window. I've never seen her, but especially in these months (December and January are their mating season), the hoot of these enormous and enormously beautiful birds is unmistakable (and a reminder to lock up the cheepers as soon as the night skies begin to grow dark). When a Great Horned Owl flies, her wings make no sound at all. But at night, close to her home, she sings a melancholy song that is uniquely lovely.


This morning I woke up to nature messing with my story line! Remember how I complained that there was not a single flake of snow to be had? Well now, maybe I was wrong.







The silly animals were hovering from early morning...


 



... and in trying to get ahead of  the flock to take a picture of the whole mess of them, I re-sprained my knee. I know, not so smart! And the photo wasn't worth it. (They're listening to me groan and wondering if Ms. Food Source will make it to the barn to feed them after all.)






Much better to simply pause and admire the scenery, without the rush...






Breakfast.





As I lamented my foolishness at making worse something that was on the way to being better, Ed tells me his own story of his knee ligament tear (it happened on a boat). Unlike the ortho clinic people, who merely told me what pills to pop for the pain, he showed me a way to move without causing further swelling. Yeah! I can limp again! Indeed, I feel strong enough to do grocery shopping! (Even though I then retire to the couch and spent the rest of the day reading countless articles about people doing beautiful and simple things in life. There are many such stories in the press this time of the year.)

I can't wait to see the kids again tomorrow! I want to hear all about their adventures in Chicago. And if they ask me -- and what did you do, Gaga? I'll say -- listen to the owl. Stretch out on the couch. Exhale. Wait for you to come home.