PASSIONATE RATIONS

Falling down stairs has an odd way of crystallizing what should be my life’s philosophy. The last time it happened (in college), I remember time slowing to a crawl as I sailed through the air, thinking, very calmy, “well, I can’t do anything about this, so I might as well just accept it.”

That is generally NOT the way I live my life. Usually, I am worried about all the things I cannot control. I burst into rages at humanity’s various stupidities, thinking the world should just be different than it is. Better, somehow. I am hard on others and I am harder on myself. Even after much therapy focused on this very problem, I find it difficult to let go. Acceptance (and patience) do not come easily.

So, maybe that’s why I get these little reminders every once in awhile.

That last time, I only missed about six wide steps as I plummeted to the bottom. The people who saw it were both traumatized and amused. I was merely amused, particularly at the clarity of thought that came with the experience. If I had broken something, I suppose things would have been somewhat different, but the universe saw fit to simply teach me a psychic lesson that time, not a physical one.

I’ve known my basement steps had it in for me for some time. The thought would often come to mind as I labored downstairs with a basket of laundry, that one slip could be quite…scary. (I told you, I worry).

This morning, as the steps made their vengeful move, placing a shoe under my foot that gave way as I stepped on it, fear did not come (except perhaps in the head of my spouse, who was watching the whole event). Instead, as I sailed through the air down the narrow-ish stairwell (in slow motion, as I recall it), I thought of that earlier fall and the acceptance it brought. As I watched the grey cement of my basement floor rise to meet my face, I remember thinking “I hope I don’t die.” I mean, I fell face forward from the top of the stairway—about twelve steps above a cold, hard basement floor. People die doing that. Or they at least break. But I wasn’t really afraid of dying as I thought it. I was just expressing my hope that I didn’t, but at the same time seemed to accept that I might.

Permanent maiming (like a broken neck or back) didn’t come to mind at all. Those thoughts were left for my spouse to contemplate as he watched in horror (unlike the onlookers to that first event, I don’t think he was amused at all). The first moment of anything less than calm that I felt was after my body had hit the floor, followed by my head. “Oh no, I’ve hit my head,” I thought. “I hope I don’t have a concussion.” But by then I knew I hadn’t died. And that was good.

I’ll be sore and bruised tomorrow. My right shoulder blade and lower back are already complaining. But I feel somehow serene, for today I have been reminded to face reality and accept the things I cannot change. Once you’re flying through the air, it’s already too late to change anything. But, if you land, and are still alive, you can go on, a little wiser, to contemplate the difference between those things that you can change and those you cannot.

Something one CAN change: not leaving stuff on staircases!