Was it just random, I asked her after I fell and injured myself, or was it somehow unconsciously intentional? Did I somehow cause this?

What difference does it make? she asked me.

Oh. The question stopped me. It was hard to grasp.  Well, I said at last, it would give it different meaning.

How so? she asked

Again, I hesitated. Well, if it was unconsciously intentional, it would mean that I’m still attached to the pain and wounds of my past, that I somehow needed this accident to stay attached. That I can’t sustain happiness. If it was random, if it was just an accident . . . I hesitated. Oh, wait, even if it was random, just an accident, my wondering about whether it’s part of an old pattern is itself an attachment to the past.

Oh, she said. Go on.

Since I fell, I told her, I’ve been reviewing a lifetime of trips, falls, sprains, bruises and breaks. It’s been consistent throughout my life. Does that happen to everybody? Does everyone trip and fall and hurt themselves like I do?

One time, after I sprained my ankle, a psychic told me to put glitter and stick-on stars on my feet, so I’d know where they were.  I laughed it off, but I fell this time because I really didn’t know where my feet were, and certainly didn’t know where the grocery cart was. And in an instant, I was once again on the ground. This time hurt badly. Why, I keep asking myself? Why do I forget where my feet are? Why can’t I be present?

Why indeed? she said.

I told her of my love of fairy tales as a child. I’d checked out the entire Andrew Lang Fairy Tales series from the library and hungrily devoured them all. The Blue Fairy Book, followed by Red, Orange, Yellow, Green. Being so deep in stories of fairyland, where there was magic and happy endings, I could escape my mother’s pain. And yet, I once again, years later, I tripped and fell and created my own pain.

I was so happy the day I fell. I was thinking about an upcoming dance class and a party with good friends. But the grocery cart was very much on the ground, right in front of me, the back wheel directly in my path. I didn’t see it. Now I can barely walk.

Am I denying myself happiness? I asked her. Is this how I continue to belong to the past, to my mother, who lived in so much pain. Is this my attachment to her?

What would it mean if it is? she asked me.

It would mean I’m doomed to a lifetime of injuries, I said. I don’t want that. Life isn’t so fraught now. I really don’t need to escape to fairylands anymore. I need to be here with my feet. How can I learn to be present?

That’s a good question, she said. How can you be present?

I wish I knew the answer, I said.

What would it mean if your accident had nothing to do with an attachment to your past, she asked? What if you just fell?

Again, I stopped to think about it. Either way, i come to the same place, I told her. Either way, I wasn’t present when I tripped. I didn’t know where my feet were and where the grocery cart was. Either way, I still need to be present. I need to know where my feet are and what’s around them.  Either way, I get to the same place.  

Yes, she said. And what do you need to be present with your feet and to know what’s around them?

I guess that’s the real question, isn’t it? How can I be present?

Yes, she said. Sometimes finding the right question is the healing, isn’t it?