So I fell again. This is the third time since I moved to Tacoma that I’ve tumbled while taking a walk on a perfect sunny day. The damage, as you can see: scrapes on my palm and knee (the purple fingers are an artifact). I’ve been walking every day, about a mile to the coffee shop—stop, drink, read, scribble—and then back home. One of the luxuries of joblessness. Each time, I’ve tripped on the very uneven and broken side walks here, but it’s still pretty defeating.
I walked regularly in Seattle, but there were no sidewalks in my neighborhood there; and though I tripped on curbs and sprained an ankle more than once when I lived in NYC, I never remember falling forward onto the pavement like this.
I’ve lost my balance somehow. I try to pay more attention to the lay of the land, but invariably, I glance about or become engrossed in my own thoughts. I’ve begun wearing more substantial shoes, but obviously that didn’t help. Although this time, I broke my fall by quickly rolling onto my back onto the grass strip. Drop and roll, sort of. I don’t think I’ve sprained my wrist, like I did on the first fall. So maybe I’m progressing— learning to fall more gracefully.
I’m not sure how to characterize this condition. I don’t think it will stop me from walking.