I’ve been limping along slow,
gimpy with an ankle that veered hard right
while the rest of me crashed in a heap on top,
a blowout of sorts
and it’s been a swollen black and blue hobble for a few weeks since.
Seems my normal setting is a pretty fast gait,
because this slow going has felt crazy awkward;
“Embrace stillness,” they said.
“Just stop and prop.”
It sounded so good, so right.
So why I have not.
I’ve cultivated a certain quiet in my heart,
often while moving quite fast,
but this business of not moving around at all
seems a different sort of challenge altogether
and if I’m being graded, I’m hoping to slide in under the tag
with a shameless D, at best
(at the very least I’ve been growing my joy over some new moves,
a hurl and catch way of propelling myself around,
and I should likely be worried that this amuses me).
Does it ever astonish you, too, how much growth still to do?
It’s been life, real and messy,
bodacious with beauty and worth
and glorious imperfection,
even with howling pain and broken wings.
And no matter the wobble, we’re plunked right down in fields of hope
and given voice and an enormous capacity for grace
and it’s ours for wallowing in,
choice by choice,
this, I think, is brilliance enough.