Falling Down
I was bringing in the groceries (plus purse, dry cleaning, and a herd of loose ideas) thinking about RGE Monitor, men and sports, drama and emotion versus information, chicken Marbella, my heart, Spain, and a sentence I am working on regarding the tango, and I tripped on my pot of mums and I fell onto my front steps and I fell hard. Elbow blood, knee blood, a bottle of good white wine, broken. As though I christened my house. (The Izzys sodas, thankfully, were spared.) Rush hour. I live on a busy street. It really, really hurt on a number of levels.
I sat down on the wet steps. The wine poured down the front walk and there was a soft, soft rain even though it was bright and sunny, the early evening lit by chaos. I took a deep breath.
Slow down. Going too fast. Watch where you are headed. One thing at a time.
I was grateful for the ungentle reminder. I sat for awhile, breathing. Stay grounded. Good to know where your feet are, what they are up to, when they are actually hooked around a pot of mums.
Whose blooms lasted, I hate to say, only a very, very short two weeks. I tripped on a pot of stems, green stems.
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