I keep looking at this thing. I want to be working on it. Perhaps this weekend. Last weekend we went to Seattle to watch the Oscars and help Peter prepare a 10-course dinner-party.
It's always an adventure to go up to Seattle and be with our friends, imagining their bigger lives in the bigger city, but this time it was even more of an adventure because of this knee stuff. Shampoo, deodorant and cough drops were pulled out of the overnight bag and replaced with rubbing alcohol, wound-tape, painkillers and arnica cream. Instead of paints I brought the physical therapy checklist.
I navigate my own space pretty well at this point. I have learned how to make do with what I can't yet do in the places I can't do them. But Seattle is very steep, and has agendas much bigger than connective tissue. It felt a bit like going back in time as far as recovery goes. A new wave of people to tell about the procedure, a new wave of problem places and a new wave of problem pains.
There's nothing to do but re-learn how to be patient. You can't hurry a knee like this, even when you want to.
It was also a magical weekend of feeling curious and alive. We'd been asked to run by a farm outside Tacoma to pick up raw milk on our way. And there is something pretty amazing about turning onto a gravel road in the farmland in the golden late-afternoon light, passing the chickens, ducks, are sumpy cows, stopping by the sign that says FARM STORE with an arrow, and literally walking into a sort of shed with a few fridges and printed instructions about where the cash-can is. Inside the fridges there are big gallon jars of milk. A label printed on a home computer. MILK. There is a tiny pillow-dog that follows you cheerfully everywhere you go. The farmer sees you on the way back to your car, makes sure you found everything you wanted, thanks you and waves. He calls the little pillow-dog Pippin (!)
Support the local farmers. Support your friend's chef aspirations. Support your knee.
