Navel Gazing

I wrote the whole thing--kind of in a whiz-bang stream-of-consciousness way, as I am wont to do nearly everything--and I even hit "publish" before I thought better of it. Before I thought, "Maybe that's enough."

There's a time for introspection, I suppose. Sometimes a body needs to sit a spell and think things through. I got side swiped. T-boned, really. And I needed to crawl out of the wreckage, put my head between my knees, and try to piece together what just happened. But I think I'm ready to totter away now on my own steam.

Because maybe that's the bravest thing of all: accepting that what happened happened, that by some miracle I survived it albeit with some dents and scraped paint, and then leaving the scene of the accident. I am never going to be the same. There will always be a "before," and an "after." But there's also a "now."

And now is busy. Now is full. Now is bike rides, and conference calls, and laundry, and trail runs. Now is the dog licking lotion off my legs and blueberries coming into season. Now is sometimes evening after evening spent alone, but sometimes it's dancing or gazing up at stars. From time to time, now is really hard and leaves a hard lump in my throat. But mostly now is okay. No, mostly now is good. Now feels like sun on my skin. Now tastes like salted butter.

I'll save all the words, just in case the "after" becomes so long that I can't remember it all anymore. It'll be there in case I want to touch the tender bits again to remind myself of the sting, to taste the tang of my own blood again. But I don't think I need to type any more, and the skid marks on the road will fade, and the grass will reseed itself where I came to rest for a while. 

I think that maybe that's enough.