The Garden of Gods and Crutches

Colorado’s summer has at last arrived, after weeks of stormy indecision. It arrived in a neatly packaged box, ready for assemblage like a beginner’s Lego kit, tied together with shiny ribbons of expectation and wrapping paper folded carefully around the edges. It is hard to delve into summer for this reason. When it first arrives I like to stare at it, to think of all that it could be, to ponder what gift the world has delivered this time.  At last it comes time to crack it open like a fortune cookie, to disturb the untouched beauty with the hope that even more beauty awaits within.

I began to construct my summer, building a structure of sun, pasting wallpaper of pages, inviting friends through the door I’d adorned with a welcome sign smile. I dreamed in the morning and danced through the night. The clouds transformed into anything I wanted them to be. But the fortune cookie crack was not the only one destined for me. In mid-leap, mid-dance, mid-smile, mid-summer, I tripped and fractured the arch of my foot.    

Soon I was given a gift all right—crutches, a boot, pain medication, the whole package. The best way to appreciate every step is to make that step a hop, limp, hobble, or artificial click of plastic. I started the summer as a classic Lego character, clicking my feet into every summer backdrop. But I soon became a Bionicle, an iron woman who first had to assemble herself before any hope of assembling a magical summer. My summer gift had one loose part.

Footsteps are highly symbolic—of where one is going, how fast one ultimately gets there, of which path one chooses to take. What did it mean that I only had one foot, that my clanking boot sent sidewalk ants scrambling, and pitying eyes staring? Did it mean that I temporarily would have no story, no symbolic strides towards adventure? That what is so crucial to so many lives, the intrinsic need to see and experience would not be realized for the doctor’s jail sentence of four to six weeks?

Determined, I went on one foot to see the world. I made each hop, limp, hobble, and click count. I accompanied my dad, step-mom, and brother to Garden of the Gods. Amidst valleys filled with perfectly draped sun, it seemed as though the world danced for me. I could not craft the clouds, yet the sky’s creamy concoction calmed my achy foot and antsy heart nonetheless. I had to be contented floating through the summer scenes, without pounding my foot down, announcing my conquest.

I clicked my way on crutches down the Garden of the Gods trail. A couple passing by remarked on my comical state, saying “Wow, brave girl!” and “You’re going to be strong after this!” I smiled and savored in the ingredients of a story coming together already. I cared less that the smoothness of my summer soup was interrupted by the splash of a chunky boot. So the flavor is a little sour—the other ingredients are still intact. My days settle around my boot, but I swallow my experiences all the same.

Perhaps “brave” wasn’t the best word. At the time, it was more stubbornness. But I am starting to think bravery is the mastery of smiling at each step instead of grimacing. It is trusting in one’s fortune cookie, and a summer that doesn’t come together like the picture on the Lego box. It is trusting life to come to me, even if that means slowing down. I tore into summer too fast. Now I carefully untie the ribbons and salvage the pieces.