Dear Farm Journal,
So, I haven’t written since Monday because it turns out when I fainted from busting my toe, I took a pretty solid knock on the head. Like I said, Rufus did his best to catch me, but I went down hard and fast. I’m no stranger to concussions or broken toes, and I grudgingly accepted the sound logic of rest. Stripped of mobility and blinking distractions, I laid denuded, alone in bare consciousness, with miles to think. A folktale from the past drifted into my head space, and I dimly recalled the motif: If you don’t learn the figurative lesson of the flesh wound, you’re fated to repeat the physical pain until you truly “learn your lesson” (or something like that). So, I meditated. And these, Universe, are the lessons I have truly, madly deeply learned.
1. Just slow down. Be mindful of the space you move through.
2. Kindness and gentleness to the body are profoundly necessary, even for bad ass farmers who think they’re 10 feet tall and bulletproof.
3. Even though everything under my primitive skin wants to jump back to work, I can humbly accept everything remains in motion when I sit still.
4. Healing is expedited by happiness, and I’m getting better every minute.
5. This one is by Rufus: When you say you’re going to faint, I’ve got to just grab you. “I didn’t realize how limp people went when they fainted”.