This is what it looks like mere moments before The Unexpected wallops you with a post eclipse backhander. Bless. I have no fuqing idea what’s coming. A good one too, that neatly underlines all key issues. Proficiently. Presciently. Painfully. All the while gently placing its hand in the small of my back and saying, here. Now. Here.
There am I, champion of the hard shelled and softly underbellied, fairly leaping out of my friend’s car to collect this little guy from the middle of the road and take him back to the creek. As you do. We finally had rain last night which topped up the shrinking waterhole, the reeds around it grown so long that I was merrily carrying him around the perimeter to leave him by the water. I did not remotely see the grassy hole in front of me and rolled my ankle into it, buckling and shrieking and swearing unlike a conservationist or a lady.
Inexplicably I held the turtle and placed him at the water’s edge. I limped back to the car. I turned to my girlfriend who had sadly missed the Careyesque floorshow and diagnosed myself.
“I think I have completely fuqed my ankle.”
An inconvenient truth.
This afternoon I have come to realise that whilst that may temporarily be true, I now have weeks of slow quiet blissful writing time stretched out in front of me, grinning wickedly. These are the lengths my surely weary otherworldly dream team is going to – these last few weeks particularly – as my self imposed book deadline concertinas toward me. This to literally force my hand. Narrow the frame. Stop me driving anywhere. Get me past my own procrastination. My trammeling fear and late at night mind addling overthinking. Oh the blessed curse of the creative life.
And so it is. Writing and tarot, tarot and writing, ice and elevation, comfrey and tea.
Ease and grace shows up in the strangest garb. The everlovin’ lattice of support that holds me and keeps me. The comfrey and crutches and warm funny friends. The humour in it all, tickling me when I don’t want to laugh. The company and care of friends on their way.
The irony of this morning’s post and image is not lost on me, darklings, nor what I scribed.
“Take whatever steps are required to plant your feet so you can begin again. Softly. Slowly. Carefully. Rash decisions are the antichrist.”
There will be no running now. Here’s to the turtles in our lives. More than worth saving, as it turns out.
Words © Kerrie Basha, 2018