At 6:39 this morning, I was already walking to the garage, keys in hand and jangling along the creek, and thinking about the oddness of driving while steak knives settled around my knee. Everything in the dark felt like it was waiting. Trees and rain moved like thirteen year old girls at their first dance, furtive and giddy. The cruelty of daylight and malfunctioning, autoimmune joints seemed ages away. Even with my knee slightly billowing, I could taste dew and not think about the imminent physical therapy routine that involves tying weights to my ankles. I walked with a consciousness of my legs and feet that only pain, slippery joints, and slipperier paths can bring. The rheumatoid arthritis component of lupus, in combination with a fibromyalgia flare, woke earlier with a bang. The only way to keep mobility and unfurl the knots is to work through pain. No one ever promised me that embodiment would be as easy as waiting for dawn. Miss Confuckinggeniality knows better than that. This is not a post about expectations. Once it is over, I drive home to play with food and hope that it stays put. I consider showering for a 9 a.m. meeting but realize I won't be able to move quickly enough to make it. Clock-bound I am not. The sweat and dew from 6:39 a.m. will simply have to stay glued on me, patient and encompassing.
Photo credit: "old car" by lightpainter (David Ramage) on flickr (click on photo to see more work by that artist). See his work and sale items at here and his thoughts on his photography and process at Ramaged. Permission obtained for use.