I felt normal today for the first time since I fell and suffered a brain bleed and severe concussion about a month ago.

Maria thought I was dead, and so did I, and the ambulance crew was sure my heart had given out. The surgeons found blood in my brain and came close to freaking out and opening my head. I have never had a serious, long, or debilitating injury. Most days, I felt I was more or less finished; I was mangling my words, printing all kinds of typos, getting my thoughts mixed up, and unable to sit, stand, or walk without a spinning head and a feeling of falling.

I went to the dark side and crossed into the soulful world of the sick, weak, dying, and helpless. I am fortunate; I have resources, support, and good health care, and I knew in some corner of my heart that I would be lucky. I could get better; I had lost no one I love and was not trapped in the horror of human cruelty. I heal well; it’s a strange quirk, a genetic gift from my father, an athlete all his life.

But I was lost in the dark for those first days and could not get in touch with myself, my future, my hopes, and my wonders. I hurt all the time and was unsteady all of the time.

Any mental activity brought exhaustion, poor vision, confusion, head spinning, and anxiety. Bit by bit, I recovered; it was slow. I could not be alone for too long.

It was never even; every day was different. I would have a great day and, for no reason, an awful day. Riding in the car’s passenger seat made my head spin, but driving was okay. Picking up a book could make me fear fainting; writing a blog post was fine. I couldn’t use my Leica; it was too heavy, and I feared falling or damaging it. It was fuzzy when I looked through the viewfinder.

But I could take photos, and I didn’t miss a day of writing on the blog.

My brain, my lifelong partner and hope, had lost touch with me. I was sometimes not sure of what I was.

The blog immensely helped my healing. It was a daily focus, something I had to think about. I had to keep it going; I would not give it up, even for a day. I think it was a milepost for me. The news was horrifying, deflating, depressing. It also reminded me that I was fortunate.

Other things helped me regain my composure. The sudden arrival of a barn cat with a boisterous spirit lifted my spirits and inspired me to move. A sweet Lab who never left my side kept me smiling and feeling less alone. Animals have always helped to define the passages of my life. Zip is a spirit cat; he showed up when I needed him.

I initially came close to giving up, then decided that wasn’t the way to go. I don’t want to be like that.

I credit my spiritual work with giving me the strength and hope to keep my spirits up and to avoid complaint, self-pity, or surrender. Maria was a constant loving and nurturing presence; I kept thinking she couldn’t possibly love the mess I was without seeing something worthwhile. Her love saved me steadily and lifted me. She is a remarkable human.

The idea of acceptance lifted me and sustained me, but there were many days when I could barely speak.

Still, I know I am not the master of life, only a tiny dot in the universe. I was not in charge of life, nor could I predict or explain it. But I can accept it. Acceptance is my God and centerpiece. Grace is not a life without trouble; grace is how we respond to trouble and pain. And I was in a lot of trouble and pain. And I meant to get through it without complaining or narcissism. Everyone has troubles as bad or worse than mine. I will not speak poorly of my life.

In my daily life, fear often causes me to lose myself. My body is always there, but my mind is usually all over the place, and for a month or so, these places were not good. Sometimes, I could lose myself in a book or streaming mystery; a book could carry me away from my troubled body and into a different reality. It was surreal, this sickness. My brain, which focused and directed me all of my life, was injured and sporadic.

Sometimes, my brain worked; sometimes, it disappeared, and I felt like someone else who couldn’t remember words, things, or experiences. Odd images and memories would pop up in my head and then disappear. I had to remember who I was, where I was, and when it was.

I knew I had to get back into myself to heal. People approached me sorrowfully and gently as if I were a grenade about to explode or a fragile piece of glass.

No, I wanted to say. It is life that is the grenade, not me. I bow to life and acknowledge that it is my master, and I am its slave. I wish that were not always true, but I know it is. Fear always came to me because I couldn’t accept life and thought I could take charge. Once I let go of that idea, much of my fear faded. I could do nothing about life but live it with grace and respect. That helped me to recover.

I sometimes forgot my body these past few days and lost faith in it. I was living in a transitional, confusing, and imaginary world. It wasn’t me. It’s difficult to know my body when I have so many plans, fears, obligations, and dreams; they don’t live in my body; they are just passing through. While trapped in fear and pain, I tried to plan my way out and could not see all of the beauty in my life that Mother Earth has offered me in meditation and mindfulness.

I went into myself and my breath and my interior self. This helped me to get back to myself.

I found peace and hope there, and day by day, recovery. I owe my recovery to Maria, my blog, my photography, a loving and energetic barn cat named Zip, a dog named Zinnia, my pictures, and my farm. My blog is the focal point of my new life; it sustained, uplifted, and challenged me to keep my brain alive.

I rested every single day, often for hours. Today, I woke up, and my back hurt very little for the first time in a month. I was not dizzy; I went and got the wheelbarrow and hauled stones to patch up a hole Bud had dug while trying to dig under his fence and eat a frog who was taunting him just a few hours away. I worked and worked at it every day.

I wanted to quit at first but never did. The pain did not ease for weeks. I knew it would, and it did.

I discovered two cannabis gummy bears that helped me to sleep. I’m on new medicines that help my diabetes.

Today,  I could walk without pain, feel strength returning to my legs, and experience life as rich and meaningful again. I didn’t get faint or dizzy every time I stood up. It was healing to go to the Mansion and realize how much I had missed my meditation class and Mansion friends. It helped me get back into the reality of my life.

Maria was happy for me today; she said I looked normal for the first time since I had fallen on my head. Our love for one another flourished. She felt good when I felt good; she hurt when I hurt. Worlds were not necessary; love spoke for us.

All the while I struggled, I could not help but feel the pain of millions of innocent people slaughtered without reason or compassion. I have no right to pity myself or complain. Things are not worse for me than for anyone else.

I am alive, healthy, and full of hope and purpose. I am a believer in acceptance and honesty. Doctors can work miracles on me, but I am responsible for my health and the value and purpose of my life.

My doctors tell me I am an excellent healer and that my attitude helps me get healthy and work through pain and trouble. I’m not sure what they mean, but I like what they say.

Today, I’m close to retiring the Recovery Journal; my recovery is here. I feel as close to my regular self as I have in weeks. I am grateful to be alive, to be healthy again.

I am cautioned to be careful and go slow. There will be more bad days. It can come back at any time, they say. The easier I go on myself, the easier it will go on me.

Okay, okay, I’ll be good.

But I am happy and grateful to be feeling so much better. And thanks to those of you who rooted for me, felt for me, cheered me on, and understood that I would get well. I appreciate that. What ails me is treatable.

Whenever I feel sorry for myself, I think instead of those for whom there is no medicine, love, or hope. Those are the ones who break my heart.