Why would a woman who openly strives for mindfulness -- exhorting others to do likewise -- need a cordless phone, technology specifically designed for the multi-tasker?
Perhaps I should have asked myself this question six weeks ago, before I rushed to answer the device.
On that particular evening I slid into my office chair, tucking my leg underneath me, as I reached to pick the phone out of its cradle. It was my nephew Max and -- not for the first time -- he needed money. Max had quite a story to tell and seemed not to hear me interject that I didn't have the funds to loan him. He obviously didn't remember that he hadn't paid dime one since the last time my husband and I bailed him out.
As he words droned on, I marveled at that fact. That he felt no compulsion to ask for another grand when the first thousand had gone unpaid for over a year. I was angry at Max. Angry at myself for holding back those feelings. And, oddly enough, I was even mad at my situation ... that I hadn't the funds to help him. My internal struggle played out for several minutes while Max recited a litany of reasons why he needed the money.
"I'll have Frank call you," I finally interrupted. "I don't know what your uncle can do, but I can't help you," I insisted while rising from my chair. I cannot remember where I was headed in my agitation, but phone still in hand, I took a step toward the office door, then another. Suddenly I was falling! Time slowed as the realization hit that my right foot was asleep ... that it hadn't obeyed my brain's command to take another step ... and that my ankle was now moving in a direction I didn't think was physically possible. That's when I heard it, craack-crack-crack-craack-crack! And, finally, a wave of great pain.
"Max, I'm sorry. I have to go now," I gasped before clicking the phone off. Marveling at my composure, I pulled myself along the desk back to the safety of my chair.
Soon enough I got the diagnosis I'd been dreading: a broken ankle.
As of Friday, it's been six weeks. Forty-some days of being chauffered around. Of struggling to do the simple tasks around the house that I can ... and of watching those things go untended that I cannot reach. And, yet, I'm lucky. A friend pulled a similar stunt the very next day with worse consequences; her fracture required surgery.
I've pledged that when my leg is unbound once more, I'll never sit on it in such lazy fashion again. I've vowed to close the bank of Brenda and Frank. By most importantly, I've made a promise to handle frustrations in a mindful manner, to actively listen to my body ... and to avoid doing both simultaneously. After all, I reason, I bet old Buddha never cracked his ankle while agonizing over his cordless!
So, there I stood. It was a snowy Saturday morning and I was poised between the MP3 player on the kitchen counter-top behind me and a sink piled with mixing bowls and cookie sheets. As the mindfulness meditation began I turned to wash dishes.
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