I step off my bike into a hole in the grass. Down I go; it is as simple as that. Everything happens in slow motion: the fall, the break as I reach out with my left arm, the visit to urgent care followed by the nine-day wait for surgery, and eight weeks of recovery. There is no way to proceed without first accepting a slower pace.
The daily routine with a broken wing offers me a gentle invitation to rest and turn inward. There is no writing, no driving, no chopping veggies. Forget about dropping crab cages into the creek or riding a bicycle. My injury impedes opening child safety caps, making lists of any kind, and ripping open packages that arrive in sealed mailers.
I am grateful that the injury wasn’t worse and that it is merely temporary. And what a blessing that I didn’t fall during a recent overseas bike trip. I do not face this setback alone. Instead, my husband steps in as helpmate, driver, cook, and personal assistant. What a blessing to be paired with this man for 35 years. He does everything possible to fill in the gaps.
Three dear friends arrive in succession, each
