A week ago Ken and I opened a special bottle of wine, the last from our trip to San Francisco in 2006. The half-filled bottle was on the counter. After I cleared the table I turned around, threw open my arms, and sent the bottle flying. The neck broke as the bottle fell and wine flowed into a puddle on the floor.
On Sunday I prepared chicken to cook for dinner. I set the plate of boneless breasts on the counter, and it promptly dropped to the floor where the plate broke into a dozen shards. I salvaged the chicken. A day later I found a piece of blue ceramic under the kitchen table.
Yesterday I melted butter in the microwave to make molasses cookies. As I removed the lid from the casserole, I lost my grip. The lid landed in the sink on a wine glass. The glass, left from the night before, shattered. The Pyrex lid, thirty-one years old in September, escaped unscathed. I can replace the glass.
I feel like an awkward teenager. I can't seem to keep track of my limbs or control what they're doing. I have lost my perspective of space and where I am, literally.
Since yesterday afternoon I have used two hands when I do anything. I stop to think about where I am in relation to my surroundings. I secure everything I set down, and I have moved anything breakable back from the edge. My behavior belies my internal transition. Is this a breakthrough, or is it just broken glass?
Last night I needed a reprieve, so I sat for hours and worked on a scarf I started knitting last week. Nothing breakable there, and for safety sake I may finish it sooner rather than later.