Peg Kerr's Journal

This is embarrassing to admit:

I broke a toe this week.

I've never broken a bone before, but I managed to snap this one (second toe on the left foot) bringing laundry up from the basement. I couldn't see the steps because of the laundry basket I was carrying, and I didn't raise my foot up quite enough and...ouch!

I'm embarrassed about this because it is yet another data point in my ongoing campaign to apparently prove to everyone that I cannot walk like a normal person. I've had, what, four or five falls in the past several years. I didn't talk about the last one (again, embarrassed) but I managed to clobber myself when I was out buying a pride flag. Stumbled over a speed bump in a crumbling, decrepit parking lot and landed on my shoulder and forehead. The shoulder took the brunt of it so I didn't get another concussion, but still, ow.

I've been thinking about my trouble walking. Is this a normal part of aging, or am I just clumsy, or is there something going on with my walk that needs to be addressed? I didn't bother to go to the emergency room because of the toe (a clean break, and I know that they can't do much more than tape it, which I've done), but I'll be talking with my doctor today--should I perhaps see a physical therapist to get my gait evaluated? What on earth is going on?

Walking on a broken toe reminds me of something I learned many years ago when I had foot surgery: you use your toes a LOT to walk. And thinking of walking, of being rooted, of being grounded, reminded me of a poem I wrote back in 2008 when I found an acorn wedged in a hole in my shoe:



I wrote:

the holy tree grows hidden within the heart
the seed lies nestled in secret within the shoe
a reminder of the earth beneath me
the yogi says, while doing Tree Pose,
find your balance
and if at first you start to sway, don't give up
trees sway
get more grounded
I turn my shabby sandal over in my hand
place it on the floor
and slip it over my foot
my walking root
I stride away, swaying,
tree in my heart
toes spread wide
seed in my shoe kissing the earth with every step

All these thoughts came together to make this card. I did not use the most unpleasant picture of the foot I have (behind the tape, the toe is grossly technicolor) to spare your sensibilities.

Image description: Background: a large tree in the forest with exposed roots (pointillism filter over the photo). Hovering over the roots, center, is an injured foot with tape over the first and second toe and a bruised surface. Superimposed over the foot is a germinating seed. Above the foot, top center, is the sole of a black sandal. An acorn is wedged in a hole of the sole.

Grounded



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I found this poem in a stack of old papers as I'm trying to extricate the contents of my old office and put it in storage so that it can become Fiona's bedroom. I wrote it, apparently, ten years ago. My efforts to dabble with poetry have been very few, sporadic, and certainly not very good.

How may I begin writing poetry at forty?

At forty you expect competence
rough edges smoothed
not clumsiness or false starts
You know how to make a risotto
spot clean the carpet
change the oil
but poetry--

The maiden, ah now the budding maiden
may catch the jagged words
and learn to fit them together
so that they mesh, flex and move in sinuous pattern
and if their crystalline shapes cut her fingers
her skin is young enough to heal

The crone's withered hands move
sure, confident with long practice
slipping thought into intricate rhymes that surge,
storm with echoing ancient power

But the mother who has never written poetry hesitates
poised over the page
until the awakening baby's cry
shatters the iridescent wisp of airy nothingness
uncaught
and now ever unsung

An Earl Grey day
mist like light through pewter
I bicycle to work
the knees creak
breath burns in the lungs
life is hard
mud and grease
and ingratitude
weariness that cuts to the bone
work
and home
and cook
and clean
eat a chocolate-covered coffee bean

no sun
no shadows
drape the air with cloud and mist
gray soft cool
mist softens the silhouette of the charcoal gray smokestacks
enshrouds and dims tops of the skyscrapers
the summer crowd that walks the bridge during the sunny days is gone
only me
a woman walking a blanket-swathed baby carriage
a man in a pea coat staring through the viewfinder over the river
austere gulls flap
wheeling
wheeling
wheeling
jagged parentheses, slate against the sky
gray and ebon-tipped against the snowy foam of the falls
white against the pewter river
spray from the falls breaks the water surface
black silver gray pearl white
shadow in the lock of the dam reflects white of the sky
foam from the falls roars into shadow

As a creativity exercise, I pulled out my old Magnetic Poetry kit. After a half hour of messing around, I came up with this:

The goddess of chocolate
dreams of lovers' tongues
languid with lust
licking her essential sweetness
she drools as she dreams
gorgeous
and luscious
and so easy