Recently, I suffered a somewhat frightening accident; eight weeks ago, I fell approximately twenty-five feet, or the equivalent of two-and-a-half residential stories. I won’t dwell on what happened, because most of the people close to me already know, but suffice it to say that the incident was jarring in both the physical and non-physical senses of the word. In an instant, my day-to-day routine seemed awfully fragile.
Now, as the worst of the pain and disruption—hospitals, wheelchairs, and stomach injections come to mind—seems past, it is difficult not to consider it a crucial juncture. I was astoundingly lucky: as I tumbled, my reflex was to try and get my feet beneath me, and I succeeded. If I hadn’t, I might have died, or sustained different injuries with dire—and perpetual—consequences. Instead, if one plans to fall so far, they’d be lucky to come out as I have, with the ability to walk toward approximate normalcy.
In a moment, everything could’ve changed. Not to bore, or sound contrived, but that instant has made me blissfully aware of what I have, and starkly highlighted its temporal nature. I hope not to lose that clarity as the injuries fade further, for it has reminded me to continually invest in what I love, be it the people in my life, or the making of things, or any number of other pursuits that I value.
I do not intend to fixate on this, and will not broadcast this meditation any further. I fell pretty far, but thanks to a little luck and the continued support of those around me, my feet are underneath me, and I hope to land higher-up than I was before.