Reminder

It's been 6 months, 2 weeks, 1 day and 16 hours since the accident. I'll recap:

I was coming from a restaurant heading home after paying $3.15 for a flat ginger ale. It was raining. It was 11:20 pm. Based on the damage to my car, the other driver --whose headlights were off-- was traveling between 110-125mph.

I never got a chance to speak to the other driver. He wasn't wearing a seat belt, failed the police sobriety test, and was arrested on scene. I learned recently it was his first time offense. And I have forgiven him. But it's not something that can --or will-- be forgotten anytime soon. I have no idea how he is. I pray he's alright.

As for me, after 26 weeks of chiropractors, hospitals, MRI's, orthopedic surgeons, one-hour physical therapy visits twice weekly, I have just walked out of my final session. At this point, I continue the physical therapy stretches at home. There's not much more progress to be made at a doctor's office. For the most part, I really feel great. It only hurts if I'm sitting for more than 15 minutes at a time. Or standing for more than 15 minutes at a time. Or walking for more than 15 minutes at a time. Or when the barometric pressure drops. Or when I'm sleeping.

If it sounds like I'm complaining, it should.

Because I am.

No one deserves this. No one deserves to face an irrational fear of getting behind the wheel of her car at night. Or when it rains. Or on any given morning on her way to work, not knowing what other 2,000 lbs weapon will come hurling towards her.

But stretching every day to lessen the pain?



I know it's a small price to pay. I was lucky. For that, I am grateful.
Please, drink responsibly.

Dear Madeleine

Madeleine L’Engle, 88, passed away six days ago. She was the author of the award winning A Wrinkle in Time, the story that continues to inspire my own writing. If this book were a man, I would marry him.

I first learned about L'Engle's death from another of my favorite author's (Meg Cabot) online diary. Soon after, I found a NY Times article on the famous writer's life and death. I wanted to read the whole thing, but stopped after the first paragraph. There was little I didn't already know.

I'm not sure why this surprised me, considering I’ve read all but nine of her 60+ books, including an autobiography, interviews, book reviews, commencement speeches, quotes, poems, theories, and even a published thesis written about her life work. As a devoted fan, I know much about her, though it's not without a little regret and self-pity that I never met her, not for a lack of trying. I once wrote to Ms. L'Engle asking her to be my Confirmation sponsor if memory serves.

My first thought when I learned of her death was, of course, sadness followed by regret that our paths had never crossed. But the more I thought of it, I realized that wasn't entirely true. Not technically.

Last year, I worked in Maine alongside a teacher who later introduced me to his brother, author T. A. Barron. Barron just so happens to be L’Engle’s godson of sorts.

When I began commuting to NYU last June, I stayed with a cousin who shall not remain nameless: John LoDestro. Cousin John lives approximately twelve-seconds from the very cathedral on which many of L’Engle’s books and stories are centered. Here, L’Engle worked for a handful of decades as librarian and writer-in-residence. While in NYC, I'd visit the Cathedral regularly. No sign of her.

Two and a half weeks ago, a colleague and I were talking about writing and she mentioned how she grew up, quite literally, across the street from L’Engle’s daughter.

I can only be grateful for the people whose paths I have crossed that in one way or another are her friends, neighbors, family, and fans. Through her writing she breaks the rules, explains our world, defies the time-space continuum, crosses universes, and loves unapologetically. Not having met her, I suppose I keep the image of her I've always had. This divinely untouchable, but utterly humble country woman who's writing prowess keeps me reaching for my pen.

Ms. L'Engle, you will be missed and are adored.


Madeleine L'Engle Franklin, 1999
SONNET 9 (Circa 1998)

Resurrection’s not resuscitation.
What, in heaven’s name, do we expect?
I’m satisfied with no one’s explanation
Which seem to me more fancy than correct.
I know that hour beloved body’s gone
And heaven’s not pie in some ethereal sky
It’s you I want, familiar flesh and bone.
But my flesh, too, is mortal. I will die.
So what, then, do I hope from resurrection?
I hope beyond my wildest hope unseen
That there will be some aware connection
‘Twixt what we will be and ‘twixt what we’ve been,
And you and I and all we love will meet
When Love has won, and we’re at last complete.

–Madeleine L’Engle, The Ordering of Love