One month has passed since my first surgery...
I my body is mending, scars are healing. I have rested and have started the slow steady dance to recovery and hopes of returning to my old self, a normal state, a 100%. Two steps forward, one step back. It feels very far away right now. My body may be resting, but my mind is racing. I have been flooded with thoughts daily. Floods of memories of friends and places. Memories I cling to for a sense of grounding and belonging. A daily mix of emotions from the numbing sensation of continual perseverance to the present moment practice of mending oneself, to the fleeting faith in the future hopes and dreams. What is it about a month anyway? Why are taught to place dates on such things? As to somehow tack a date or number to these ephemeral notions as a way to make them more real? Not to say they're not real. They are very real! We act on such notions, we change, we plan, strive and celebrate on such notions. But to frame such things as self improvement, healing, and mental perspective by dates and numbers seems counter-intuitive. These deeply personal life changing experiences that tend to become clearer to us as time passes. These things should not be gauged by numbers on a calendar.
The metrics that we place on dates and the passing of time, albeit sometimes arbitrarily, to help us define our lives, the seasons, years, and holidays I have never been a fan of. I have consistently avoided them to almost a fault. I have somehow forgotten important birthdays, anniversaries, and celebrations. Not out of spite, but avoidance to living, remembering, celebrating defined by a specific date in time and not by whim or heart string tugs, or by inspiration. Yet, here I am once again at this crossroad in time declaring success or failure by a date.
In one month, summer has changed to fall. daylight shortened, the air cooled, my body has mended but my mind and soul have not. I have been caught in between two points, past and future, a nowhere place, a transitional land, and I have not stepped out from under it yet. Framed on one end by friends, familiar places, smells, and rituals. The other end is unknown, unformulated, untied.