I haven't digested the email from George this morning where he relates the car accident he was in.
Not really. As no word came from him yesterday, not since the day before, I entered that place of acceptance, of not knowing in or out, just is or was. I have gotten used to that place. There are days when I welcome knowing that I am in control of, have influence over, absolutely nothing. Not even breathing. Not even whether or not breathing continues. Nothing but here and writing. Sometimes not even that.
I opened his email this morning, so glad to find it there, to hear his voice sounding strong and loving, and jolted by his tale of riding with the couple who's studio he's working at, his friends, in a severe rain storm, and of the car losing control, and the wreck.
How may thousands of miles away is he? I knew something was wrong yesterday, but if I had let my mind flit across the hundreds of constructs of disaster where I usually reside in unhealthy comfort, I would have been paralyzed, not able eat or speak, to talk to friends, to relate, to warm and be warmed.
So I waited. And this morning I find out the wreck was bad enough to have totaled the car, but George, thank God, is fine. He said his neck actually feels better. With two severely damaged disks and a bone spur in his neck going into the accident, I can only think (read: hope) some chiropractic adjustment took place with the impact.
PTSD. It's not that you consciously fall to the ground in a heap with every blast. It's that with every surprise, every other surprise flashes back. Pow, pow, pow, whatif, whatif, whatif.
But I didn't.
I can't name what I feel. Joy that he is okay. Joy that I hear joy in his writing. Everything else, I'm leaving where it is. Won't let it surprise me this time.
Love you, George.
