We are at the beach with Jane’s sisters—a long-awaited time together this side of the pond. It’s not a grand pilgrimage—though the horse shoe crabs and the sand-dunes might argue otherwise. It is a brief pause, a pocket of calm in a world that currently feels more rough than usual. And yes, I know: just being here is a kind of privilege. Not everyone has time to sit and stare at waves. I am thankful.
And then it happened: the ankle twist.
To be honest, I was showing off. A sign of good health as you age is being able to stand up from sitting on the floor cross-legged without using your hands. I have done it a thousand times. “This is how it’s done,” I announced.
Getting up was as easy as ever—then the soft sand shifted, my ankle turned, and something popped. Not broken, not serious. But really painful. Enough to remind me of something I had forgotten: the ego is a poor master.
Egotism wears many faces. Sometimes it shows up in arguments or ambition. Sometimes it whispers: “You are in control.” I thought I was. After all, I have gotten up from the floor so many times. But the body, like the ocean, resists control. It follows its own rhythms. I have been limping for the past six days. It is a bit humbling.
Maybe that is what ordinary time is for. Not grand gestures, but gentle reminders. The kind that arrive through a twisted ankle. Or the call of a mourning dove. Or the slow sip of tea before anyone else wakes.
The analog world—what we touch, smell, hear, and hurt—does not wait for permission. It interrupts us. It breaks our self-importance. It invites us into something deeper than explanation.
Even in the digital space of this blog, I feel the need to name that analog space. The sea is not a metaphor—it is wet. The sand is not an image—it is gritty. The body is not a symbol—it is vulnerable. And the sacred? It is here too. Right now. In the limp. In the breeze. In this ordinary time.
Enjoy your day,
+Ab. Andy