In the Dust

Yesterday I tripped and fell on the dusty Fullerton Loop Trail in California, walking with my sister, Maggie, back to her house. I felt myself stumble and instantly started to run, hoping to overcome gravity. Just as Maggie said, “Good catch!”, I realized that gravity had won. I braced myself with my hands, hoping to protect my face, but no, thud went my heavy skull, just like a toddler, contacting the ground with my chin.

I immediately assessed the damage: nothing badly hurt but my vanity. Maggie came running up and I quickly said, “I’m okay.” Then I rolled onto my back in the sandy dust, my hand resting on my chest, feeling my racing heart.

There was only a drop or two of blood, where my metal glasses cut into the bridge of my nose. Minor abrasions, now blooming with colorful bruises. About a minute after I fell, I asked Maggie to take my phone and stop Runkeeper, the fitness app that uses GPS to track my mileage and speed. Until my tumble, I was averaging a 16 minute, 34 second mile on our 4-mile walk. I didn’t want to lower my average while lying in the dirt.

The mind/body connection is fascinating. Today, each time I relive my fall, even for a moment, I feel an acute shock at the level of my tailbone. I don’t know if chakras exist, but I know that when I think about a disaster, real or imagined, pain to myself or a young child, I instantly feel it. When I see a child teeter, it’s as if I am falling. There are regions in my body that react to even a transient thought of disaster.