Spread 2
February 22, 2009
TEXT
my meditation teacher wrote those words in an email, about a week after the accident
I knew that – once the proverbial smoke cleared and I was out of surgery – I’d need to get a broader perspective on where to go from here. I needed some tools to help me through this.
Trips to the ER were old-hat, part of my childhood landscape. I remember the late night panicked drives down L.A boulevards, my asthmatic lungs grasping for air they couldn’t reach. I remember the crack of a sliding patio door: my body a bird that saw sky instead of a wall of glass, falling into my mother’s screams, the fireman who whispered how sorry he was to be bandaging up such a pretty face.
The bike crashes came later. One of the first began as a steep pedal towards a friend’s home. It ended with an absence of memory, a clean 8-hour sweep. I must have hit my head, but still managed to make it to my friend’s front door. I’m told I was incoherent and bloodied on arrival. I regained consciousness on a gurney, with an IV in my arm. Rehab included the awesome egg custard from Pan’s on La Tijera.
One of the most dramatic crashes involved trolley tracks that never got dug up. My tire slipped neatly into a deep groove and stuck. I flew over the handlebars and four upper-front teeth shattered on impact. I remember hearing shouts from passing cars. When I tried to respond, bits of enamel flew from my mouth like skipping stones. I still managed to make it to freshman orientation at U.C Santa Cruz the following week, my lips pressed tight in a strained smile, a case of baby food sustenance.
Despite my impressive resume, it’s been two decades since the trolley tracks. And – now that I’ve made a renewed commitment to my Buddhist meditation practice – it seemed wise to ask for some spiritual guidance. One of the first things my teacher said, when we met up, was that my illusion of control had – literally – been shattered. I guess it doesn’t matter that I’ve had lots of practice. In the moment, shock softening all the edges, I do let go. It’s only later, when I’m out of danger that I hold on. Ironic.