Today I was all set to write about pain. The emotional pain I've been going through. And about how suffering through that seems to have gotten my creativity jump-started. It's been longer than I can remember since I've felt the need/urge/drive to make something happen but here I am. After a hellish week of frustration and disappointment, rejection (real or imagined), opening my eyes and taking a realistic view of reality, I want to write. I'm exploring ideas. I'm moving in directions I haven't tackled yet. Fiction. Movies. Producing. Who knows if any of them will become an actuality, but at least thoughts are springing into my imagination, looking for ways out.
That was what I was going to explore. How sometimes, for me anyway, the road to creativity is pain.
And then I got bitten by something small and sharp and very painful. Standing in front of Jack's school today, I felt a sting on the side of my left hand and saw something that looked like a mini burr off a cactus. I quickly yanked it out but the pain stayed. And grew. The heel of my hand started to swell, turning puffy white, then red. The spot I'd pulled the sharp bit from was tender to the whisper of a touch.
Panicking as I'm sometimes prone to do, I wondered if I'd have a severe allergic reaction, and I waited for my throat to close off or my arm to go numb. Of course I then started slightly coughing and couldn't feel the tips of some fingers but I think that was just a touch of power suggestive thinking. I went home, popped some Benadryl, and went out for a long bike ride.
We took it slow today, riding only to 125th Street and stopping for awhile to chat. And then, on the way home, passing the monstrous cruise ships docked in the 50s, I fell.
Hard.
Really hard.
I remember losing control of my front wheel, it skidding a bit to one side. I was on bricks and then must have caught a rock or a crack. I remember seeing my hands grip the handlebars tightly as I flew over them. My glasses flying, in slow motion, off my face. My left knee hitting the pavement with all my weight behind it and then both hands smashing down as my face was no more than an inch from the ground. I remember someone running over to see if I was ok, if my face was ok.
I remember thinking what if I needed an ambulance. What if something was broken. How would I get home. I remember thinking physical pain is almost easier than psychological pain for me. At least it was finite, it wouldn't last forever, my hands and leg would heel and I'd move on.
But, I was ok. Shaky. Shaken. Nothing broken. No real bleeding. I stoically got ready to hop back on my bike and promptly got so dizzy I had to sit by the side of the path. And then we rode slowly home.
My left wrist is aching. My knee is swollen and throbbing. The moment I put an ice pack on it, tears flowed at the pain. I can't quite straighten my leg yet. Gravel is imbedded in my palm.
It could have been worse.
And I'm noticing physical pain isn't stirring creativity. It just makes me want to curl up and take a nap.
No comments:
Post a Comment