Winter Moon of the Winter Solstice
Christmas eve. I could measure my distance from my roots by the casual, almost unaware attitude I have to these two days. When I was a child, I had the same Santa dreams, the sleepless nights, the hopeful journeys downstairs to the Christmas tree that now infect millions of children worldwide. Tonight we celebrate the first night of Hanukkah. It’s not the Jewish ritual that marks the distance but my overall lack of engagement in Christmas music, decorations, gift buying, church going.
Though there is one way that I am not distant from my roots, not distant at all. It came to me yesterday. I got a heart level glimpse into the mind and will of my two-year old self. It was that two-year old who ignored, because he couldn’t understand, the doctors who said he’d never walk again. Paralyzed on the left side for six months and spending some time in an iron lung, the conclusion was that I’d missed the chance to walk, could not relearn it.
My mother and my Aunt Virginia helped me. At the family farm in Morristown, Indiana I drug myself along the sofa, my head often collapsed on the floor, getting rug burns as I pulled it along with the rest of my body. They helped, but it was only that young boy who could move his legs, drag his body along. He did it. Since then, I have identified walking upright in the world as a major theme of my life.
The connection came during my physical therapy, walking for the therapist so she could check my gate. That little guy, so far away now in time, brings tears to my eyes. I’m grateful to him for the chance I have now at 69 to regain use of my left knee.
