The Maze
You only live one moment at a time even though planning, dreaming, and imagining all add zest to life. Despite all our technological ingenuity, multitasking, assigning tasks, we still can't live two moments simultaneously.
And why am I thinking of moments a day after I completed the Poem a Day marathon? Simple. With everything done and the sluggish pace of topics suggested by articles, musings, heard conversations, sermons—I intended to write about the lure of challenges.
During an inning break between the Red Sox and Yankees game I chose to run down to the basement , put away my colored pencils, and rush upstairs to see the top of the third inning. An aside our basement, filled with a contractor's tools—many on the cement floor—resembles a mine field. I was well aware of traveling a maze of items to reach my art table, but I was in a hurry.
Instead of turning on another overhead light and proceeding with caution, I strode straight to my art table—ignoring any semblance of a sane crossing.
As to be expected my sneaker caught something and I went straight down hitting my face on a large light with a metal grid covering the bulb. The grid probably saved me from a shattered bulb, but it didn't save me from a nasty cut above my lip, a nose that slammed into concrete or several cuts in my mouth.
Once assessing my face and the blood from the cut we opted to go to Emerson Hospital's emergency room. By 10:30pm my laceration, that's what they call it on the piece of paper I received, sported six stitches. My nose hurt if I tried to touch either side, the cuts in my mouth, and my teeth still smarted—although fortunately my teeth weren't loose. All the damage happened in one moment. Fortunately I didn't hit my head, the scar—if there is one—will be small and my mouth will heal.
I did not write this piece when I returned from the hospital—I licked my wounds and drank water.
This is May 2nd , but I'm posting it on May 1st. Perhaps I'm stretching it when I say I composed it in my head last night, but never reached the typing part.
Now it's time to put some antibiotic on my wound and look forward to frozen yogurt at Bedford Farms. Even adults need pampering.
And why am I thinking of moments a day after I completed the Poem a Day marathon? Simple. With everything done and the sluggish pace of topics suggested by articles, musings, heard conversations, sermons—I intended to write about the lure of challenges.
During an inning break between the Red Sox and Yankees game I chose to run down to the basement , put away my colored pencils, and rush upstairs to see the top of the third inning. An aside our basement, filled with a contractor's tools—many on the cement floor—resembles a mine field. I was well aware of traveling a maze of items to reach my art table, but I was in a hurry.
Instead of turning on another overhead light and proceeding with caution, I strode straight to my art table—ignoring any semblance of a sane crossing.
As to be expected my sneaker caught something and I went straight down hitting my face on a large light with a metal grid covering the bulb. The grid probably saved me from a shattered bulb, but it didn't save me from a nasty cut above my lip, a nose that slammed into concrete or several cuts in my mouth.
Once assessing my face and the blood from the cut we opted to go to Emerson Hospital's emergency room. By 10:30pm my laceration, that's what they call it on the piece of paper I received, sported six stitches. My nose hurt if I tried to touch either side, the cuts in my mouth, and my teeth still smarted—although fortunately my teeth weren't loose. All the damage happened in one moment. Fortunately I didn't hit my head, the scar—if there is one—will be small and my mouth will heal.
I did not write this piece when I returned from the hospital—I licked my wounds and drank water.
This is May 2nd , but I'm posting it on May 1st. Perhaps I'm stretching it when I say I composed it in my head last night, but never reached the typing part.
Now it's time to put some antibiotic on my wound and look forward to frozen yogurt at Bedford Farms. Even adults need pampering.
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