Cue two hours later: at the hospital, where the nice doctor informs me that either a piece of cartilage has broken off, or the meniscus lining in my knee is torn, but the result is the same: can't x-ray my knee because it's already swollen. "Here, you're going to need these," she says sympathetically, writing out my first prescription for crutches. Ever.
You would think that lying around on the sofa or propping my leg up by the computer would prompt much reading time and deep bookish thoughts. Alas, the tylenol 3's that I take for pain
Winter - 1, Susan - 0.
Will this winter ever end? I did hear a cardinal singing
At the same time as I injured my knee, I arrived home that evening to learn of the death of David Gehue, my spiritual advisor and medicine man, that occurred the Sunday before. Before I had time to begin to understand this, I woke up - as we all did here in North America - to the news last Friday morning of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan. This weekend, while I have been sitting with my leg up on a cushion, I have been watching events unfold in Japan, feeling the enormous loss of life over there, and praying that somehow, miraculously, there isn't going to be a nuclear meltdown on top of everything else.
Sometimes, rarely, and this is one of them, there are no books, and no book thoughts. There is life, and being in this world, and painful, sorrowful, loving and kind and beautiful as it is.
Sometimes, even humour fails me. My thoughts are with Japan, and the Japanese people. And also with my medicine man David Gehue's family and Aboriginal community, at this time. I think of the cardinal I heard this morning in the darkness before the dawn, and I think that even in the darkest hour and time, there is still life. There is memory, and love, and laughter, and prayer. That's what David taught me. Even in the darkest hour, the cardinal sings.