Breakthrough

I’m back to writing this week, a project that I’ve been working on for several years now, after setting it down and picking it back up multiple times. First, there was a global pandemic and then the world was on fire, 

and someone had surgery, and I had surgery, someone was sick, the dog was sick, we went out of town, we had visitors from out of town. I had a meeting, a doctor’s appointment, a haircut. I had to make dinner, do the Wordle, go to work at the library. The weather was gray. The weather was rainy. And then the time changed, and the time changed back. 

You can see where I’m going with this. It was never the right time to write. I would sit at my desk. I would look at my keyboard. I would look out the window. I would open my phone. I would want to toss it out the window. Instead, I would do the laundry. 

It doesn't help that the project I'm working on is painful. It's a story about the past, and I want to write it, but also, it's hard.  

I used to teach classes about this. Not how to write. But HOW TO WRITE. Meaning, how to sit your butt in the chair and just do it. I had so many good tips and tricks. Somewhere along the way, I forgot them all. It was the slippery subject matter, the pandemic, the world, the Wordle, etc. Anyway, fortunately, there’s always a moment in the process when something hits you, and you let go of the dumb excuses and plunk yourself in the chair. 

What hit me this week was I got kicked in the chest by a mule. 

Not literally. But it felt like it. I was lugging the garbage bin down the driveway and somehow the handle whacked into me so hard that I lost my breath for a few seconds. I stood there, stunned, taking stock of myself, but everything seemed to be in its proper place, and I went on with my day. That night, though, it hurt a little to breathe. It hurt in the morning too. 

I googled it. Worst case scenario: broken ribs or collapsed lung. But that seemed ridiculously overdramatic. The week went on, and I wasn’t feeling any better. I returned to googling. What if I did break a rib or collapse a lung? I have osteoporosis. It’s in the realm of possibility. When I was a child, I fell and hurt my wrist. Did I need to go to the doctor? 

No, my mother told me. If it was broken, you would know. That made sense except, I didn't know. Later, my arm ended up in a cast, and I was grateful to have something to show for it after putting her through the trouble. But back to the garbage bin bashing me in the chest, I finally gave in and had it X-rayed. 

It’s fine. Nothing broken, but good that I had it checked out, the doctor said kindly. 

Still, I can’t help thinking about it, that gray area between knowing and not knowing and why was I so annoyed with myself for feeling pain? Wait. Did I feel guilty for not having a broken rib? What was really going on here? 

Something funny about the past is how it pops up when you least expect it, the things you think are settled, shaking loose, the missing pieces hiding in plain sight.