I fell Sunday, a long hard fall, my left knee landing square on a big flat stone. I call them hayloft falls. This one hurt  and I saw all kinds of white and colors and it was awhile before I got up. I don’t usually write about the minor traumas of life. I don’t like telling struggle stories. They often elicit sympathy and pity and they often trigger a lot of advice. Sympathy and advice are very well-meaning, and come from the heart and I appreciate that, but I don’t really care for either. Pity and advice are reflexes, I think, responses, but I don’t like being pitied and I don’t want sympathy  for my life and I cherish making my own decisions, doing my own research. We have to live our own lives, and experience life in our own way, not in the way of other people. So I believe.

After I fell, I went to Jenna Woginrich’s reading at Battenkill Books and there, the knee puffed up pretty good and moving it has been something of a challenge. I am not good at all at being still, resting, and I have tried to do everything I could possibly do to get the knee moving, mostly by ignoring it, and it is, of course, worse for that. Maria  caught me hobbling outside with the camera to get a photo of the donkeys and has threatened to beat me senseless if I don’t stop moving, so I will. She could do it. She is sweet, but has a hair-trigger temper and is not to be trifled with. Every time the knee hurts I think of how much I love her and it feels better.

I thought about calling an orthopedist, and then stopped and went online and browsed around a bit. I don’t want an X-ray or an MRI. I don’t want pain pills or surgery, etc. At least not now. I’ve got to go to New York City tomorrow and Wednesday for some important meetings with my publishers – Henry Holt for the children’s books, Random House for the adult books. I’m going to see my daughter Emma as well, so you can bet I am going, if I have to crawl around

So I called upon my young and emerging center, the soul of my own sense of life and spirituality, and I saw that I should listen to my own inner voice and call Roseanne, the chiropractor I go to. Come on over, her receptionist said. We’ll get you in, we’ll fix you up.

I’m glad to be writing this. Writing always makes me feel better, and open is open. This is one of those times where I see if I mean what I say, and I think I’m on a good track. Life happens, no matter how much positive thinking and meditating one does, and how you respond is the real test of spirituality for me. And of my own instincts. I’ll keep you posted.