I begin my walk marveling at the glorious spring day – sunshine, blue sky, warm weather. “What more could I want.”
Passing the pond, I note 2 pairs of ducks gracefully gliding through the calm water, and think “the joys of mating season.” My ears pick up some sounds, not really quacks, more squeaky than that, floating through air. Soon two more ducks descend upon the pond, their arrival signaled by a very small splash. The two additional lovers begin their graceful swim, trailed by two small wakes.
As I continue down the trail, my mind travels to the future, looking ahead to my forthcoming trip. In two days I’ll be with one son and his family, including three of my seven grandchildren. And then further ahead, anticipating the short vacation hiking amid red rock formations. “What more could I want.”
I muse about how much I love living here, on Harmony Farm. No wonder I rarely travel. Yet twice a year I pull up my roots and travel to places where I hike. “What more could I want.”
I see green pushing her shoots above ground and swelling buds on trees. I smell the vibrancy of earth beneath my feet. And then … suddenly … my right foot encounters a rock and loses its grip. My ankle rotates to the side. I fall. My hands automatically reach out to cushion my fall.
Encountering the ground, I evaluate my situation. No broken arms. Gingerly rising, I test out my legs. “Whew,” I think, “I seem to be O.K.”
Resuming my walk, everything feels fine and I feel deep gratitude. Then, almost halfway home, my ankle begins to protest. Soon I can barely walk. Passing by the pond, I think, “Almost home.” The last rise toward the house my ankle screams “No!” I crawl the last few feet, hop into the kitchen, make a bee-line for the freezer, retrieve two ice packs and manage to wrap them around my poor ankle.
After maneuvering my way to the basement, I retrieve a pair of crutches, swing my way to the phone, and begin a series of calls to locate my husband. To my relief, he comes to my rescue.
Though the emergency room appears empty, we learn that they are dealing with two ambulance cases. During our long wait, the loudspeaker announces, “Code Blue in Room One, Code Blue in Room One.” I remind myself of how lucky I am.
Many hours later, the verdict is in. No broken bones, but a badly sprained ankle. They wrap my ankle in an air cast, teach me now to use crutches, and send me on my way with instructions to keep my leg elevated and apply frequent ice.
Driving home we evaluate our situation. No we won’t cancel our trip. I release my anticipation of hiking, and open to what else might happen.
Letting go of expectations, I think “Perhaps I’ll learn to relax.”