Recuperation

September 11, 2002

My recuperation is on schedule. I’ve had no relapse of the searing pain and I feel more rested, almost back to normal. Everyone tells me to relax, not to push too hard, and not to rush back to work. I consider it a positive sign that I am getting tired of hearing such advice. Actually, instructions to rest are counterproductive; I need someone to forbid it. In my defiant frame of mind, I am more inclined to indulge in a guilty pleasure than to perform a solemn duty.
It is a solemn day -- the first anniversary of the terrorist attacks. I am doing my best to avoid the television. Most stations are running retrospectives and coverage of memorial ceremonies. I’ve heard that one network plans a full fifteen hours devoted to the disaster and its aftermath. It strikes me as about fourteen hours too many. Ten minutes in genuine, silent reflection would be better than watching ten hours of television coverage complete with overly sentimental theme music and annoying special graphics.
It is a warm, bright day with gusting winds. I spent an hour or so on the deck off the kitchen, watching the trees writhe and bend. Leaves are still green, except for a few from the giant weeping cherry in the neighbor’s yard. When a healthy gust comes along, some of these early yellows fly up and swirl around before falling, confetti-like, in my backyard. The first leaves to fly always appear to be foolhardy zealots. In the end, they are always proved to be prescient pioneers.
The sound of the wind when gusting is that of waves. When the wind is steady, the sound is white noise. It calms me either way. I close my eyes to feel it, inhale to smell it. I am soothed.