Crutches are harder than I than I remember, although the last time I used them toe-touch, partial-wt. bearing was allowed. Although I have enough upper body strength to swing from tree to tree, I’m finding that it is no substitute for grace and balance, of which I have not been blessed with an abundant amount.
I started yesterday in earnest on my writing, after a couple of days of background reading, and have a goal of 1000 to 3000 words a day. My initial goal was 1000, but after writing over 2000 today, I thought I’d raise the bar a little higher.
Here’s the ‘current’ opening paragraph of my ‘first’ draft. After I finish the section (about 5-6,000 words) I’ll post the second draft. It is interesting how much change there tends to be in the process of movement from start to finish, but, that’s life, as they say; however, Who they are, exactly, I know not:
The young boy sat quietly in the generous interior courtyard of the home of his father, and his father’s father. The monotony of the clay brick walls, broken only by arched doorways and windows, were his world, for he had only one memory of ever being outside of them last spring; when his uncle took him to the wadi north of the village to see the rushing waters of melted snow from northern mountains, and the pale bluish flowering of umbrella palms along the river’s shores. “Water is the source of life, Hujjat; see how it brings life to the papyrus that, in turn, glory be to Allah, brings life to us,” his uncle had said. If Hujjat stood at the extreme southern portion of the courtyard, he could see the tip of the spiraling minaret of the Great Mosque over the top of the north wall, from which he’d hear the call to prayers five times daily; metronomic intervals of time marking his young life; of course, he’d only grown into this observance twelve months ago, and with each month a few millimeters more of the minaret’s basilar aspect were revealed to him.
Went outside this evening and wheeled myself up and down the street and watched Sue plant three clumps of ornamental grasses. It was painful. She wore Croc flip-flops and generated, at most, maybe 30-40 lbs. of force with each spade thrust–it was like trying to dig hole in the surface of a giant superball; and then she hit a piece of flagstone. I managed to lever it up with the spade, from the wheelchair, so she could get under it with the dolly, and we got by. That was the first hole, then, believe it or not, the next two were effortless, like digging Miracle-Grow out of the ground; and that was right next to a huge tree, in a place where I have never dug an easy hole. The only explanation is that it must have been a Miracle. I think Sue might be a saint. The mortification of Sue Melarvie is working.
God’s Blessings to Al Johnson and Robert Thompson. I didn’t know Mr. Johnson personally, but I knew Mr. Thompson well. Both men have left indellible marks on the very fabric that is Door County.