I fall down a lot.

No, this isn’t a metaphor for my spiritual life. I’ll be walking along a newly cured, laser-leveled piece of concrete and wham! I’ll be on the ground. Yes, that actually happened to me my first go-round in college.

Fr. Father says it started back when I was in utero. He’d be walking with Mtr. Mother and talking to her, then suddenly realise she wasn’t there anymore. He’d turn around and she’d be on the ground, laughing.

I laugh when I fall down, too. What else am I supposed to do? I look absolutely silly when I fall down. Often I flail wildly, in the vain hope that I can catch my balance, whatever I’m carrying goes flying in all directions, and then I curl up and try to take the shock as best I can. Except, even after several years of aikido, I still have a tendency to throw my hands out. The orders when I was a child were always, “Save your face!”

Which, of course, means that when I fell yesterday, I twisted my hips so I’d fall on my bottom, but didn’t torque my upper body enough, so I slammmed down on one hand. And totally wrenched my back. It’s not debilitating, but it’s letting me know exactly how interconnected my musculature is; every time I move, my back sends a little reminder of my fall to my brain.

I could very easily turn this into a metaphor for sin. If you wanna, go right ahead, I’m going to go and try and find some ibuprofin or something. Ow.


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