Today it's two weeks since I had surgery, and I am mostly back to normal. Not everything was normal when I had the surgery (which is why I had the surgery), so normal is an improvement over the last couple of months.
It always amazes me to watch my body heal. I remember the only other surgery I ever had, almost twenty years ago now. At a post-op doctor visit, I complimented the surgeon on the great job he'd done on the incision. He shrugged and said, "It's not me; you're just a good healer." Now that scar is almost invisible; you really have to know what you're looking for.
Am I a good healer? Physically, yes, it seems so. I bounce back pretty fast. (And I'm so grateful for my normally great health.) But emotionally, I think I'm kind of a slow healer. Here's an example: I lost a friend a few years ago, over something that wasn't my fault, and I grieved hard for her, for her family, for our friendship, for about five years. But now that scar is almost invisible, too.
The other day, I was walking to my classroom, and I saw a crack in the cement beside one of the school buildings. There was grass growing out of the crack. These words came to my mind: "I am the grass; let me work."
I can't make healing happen, physically or emotionally, any more than I can make grass grow. But healing wants to happen, just like grass wants to push through the crack in the concrete, just like life wants to go on. If I rest and eat right and take my vitamins and let healing come, that mysterious force takes over: healing. Until the scar is almost invisible.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
I posted this poem before back in 2008. (I read it a little differently back then.)
Here's today's roundup.
7 hours ago