More and more often, I feel as though the world is moving too fast. Too much technology for me to keep up with, too many places people have to get to ASAP, too many moments that are passed by because they’re deemed unimportant at the time.

But there’s nothing quite like knee surgery to make you appreciate a forced slow-down.

This morning after my alarm had gone off and I’d sufficiently “snoozed” enough times to where I was beginning to have bizarre dreams in chunks of 5 minutes, I finally tossed my covers back and sat up. My legs dangled off the side of the bed. Legs. Plural. Not one, plus another stiff one that awkwardly jutted out from the comfort of my bed — legs.

While it couldn’t quite make a perfect right angle, my recently-operated-upon knee was able to bend more than it had the day before. It dangled, and I was proud of it. “Baby steps,” I thought to myself.

While getting ready, I finally remembered to do what I’d meant to do for the last 5 days: water the front yard. The Knee and I made our way out the front door and turned on the different sprinkler sections. It had been longer than I’d wanted, but I was on my way to reviving my winterized grass, hopefully to see it restored to its lushness that seemed to be gone as quickly as 2011 was. But I was moving in the right direction, and soon it would be green again.

“Baby steps” came to mind again.

On my drive to work, I wondered if “baby steps” would be the theme for tonight’s posting. I figured I’d let the day play out fully before I decided, so I went about my business which I assumed would be as routine as any other day.

I had a few back-to-back meetings that took up a good chunk of my day early on, and which also took me off-site. By afternoon, I was worn out — likely because I’ve been making my way through life on crutches for two weeks (doesn’t seem like a long time, but my sore arms would argue otherwise), not to mention the healthier (read: boring) eating regimen I started two days ago. Despite being worn out, I didn’t feel sluggish. Seems contradictory, but I felt on the verge of that semi-empty feeling that kickstarts your body and gets you thinking, “Hey, this actually makes me feel…efficient. And good. And I think I can keep it up.”

Baby steps.

Late afternoon, I found myself speaking to someone about yoga. Never having been a big fan of it, the description and value conveyed today were so eloquently, passionately and articulately stated, I found myself motivated to try it again as a new means of strengthening my being (in time, since one cannot rush a healing knee). I figured since, as my orthopaedic surgeon said, I will “never be a runner,” this may be something worth investigating.

Baby steps.

This evening, the night breeze was blowing in such a manner that the Disneyland fireworks sounded as though they were a war zone. The initial blast reached me head-on, while the echoes emanated all around the neighborhood, bouncing off of fences, trees and dense pockets of shrubbery. From inside, I heard faint, instrumental music, but couldn’t identify where it was coming from. I decided to go out onto the porch, and as I stood in the dark for a few moments while absorbing the explosions and mysterious melody whose origin was still unknown, I found inspiration for a new play. Not a fully-formed idea, but inspiration.

Baby steps.

Everything leads to something else, and because of this, a journey is inevitable. I imagine my knee will continue to make me proud, and that my grass will be greener due to its long drink. But would the conversation of yoga and my inspiration for a play result in my taking the next step toward each? Here’s hoping.

I am grateful that I can ponder and enjoy the baby steps as they happen; I’ve come to believe that they are as valuable as the bigger ones.

Sometimes I’ll be making my morning coffee and, as I’m waiting for it to finish, I realize that my blank, groggy stare has fallen on a random corner of the kitchen sink. Or on the faucet. Or on the tile grout. At that moment, I’m not unhappy, I’m just — there. Waiting for my coffee, embarking on another day.

My thoughts turn to the day ahead of me, like they did 15 hours ago. Having been on my staycation for 17 days, I wasn’t exactly leaping for joy at the idea of being back in the office, especially when it would be preceded by a 30 mile drive with a stiff right knee that was still in the process of healing…although healing alone would likely take months of patience and gentle exercise before it’s back to normal.

I thought about the emails I would need to wade through and the stack of mail I’d need to sort. I thought of the sad pile of Christmas cards which had likely arrived on my desk after I’d left the office for the year that I’d need to open and then discard, as well as the status reports I’d need to catch up on. Then I thought about the meetings that my crutches and I would need to leave 10 minutes early for just to be in a conference room on time. The day was exhausting already, and my coffee wasn’t even done yet.

And then, as effortlessly as the breeze changes its direction, I was buoyed by something. A feeling. And it began in the neighborhood of my heart.

It was a feeling that didn’t so much speak to me, as it did swell up from within. A feeling that was the equivalent of standing under the smallest amout of delicate, tiny glitter particles which were being released from just above my head; I could almost feeling them drifting down around me.

It was a feeling that made me look forward, at least, to the drive to work, when I’d have a minimum of 45 minutes of uninterrupted bonding time with my favorite songs.

It was a feeling from which I was able to distinctly and delicately pull out one bit of assurance: today would be a good day.

“Your 17-day rest has done its job, and you are ready to return,” the glittery feeling said. “Relax, and you’ll be fine.” So I did.

This feeling has happened before. Sometimes it comes as I’m stepping into the shower. Other times it arrives as I’m in the middle of my lengthy-yet-relaxing (to me) makeup routine. If I’m lucky, it comes the night before something stressful and guides me toward sleep, the way a friend would take another friend’s hand. And it’s not always on a weekday — it just finds its way through my gray mist of quiet doubt and brewing unsettledness.

But when it nudges me, it reminds me that I am not in this alone. And I am grateful for its visit.

My coffee was finally ready, and we began our journey from the kitchen back to the bathroom where I would get ready for the day — my day. 

I am thankful for the ability to identify, in my quietest of moments, the speck of inspiration I need to breathe in, breathe out, and go forward with a sense of calm.

I have a Christmas obsession.

I spend most of the year looking forward to it, and on December 26th, I promptly mourn its loss.

This year, I assumed I would go through my KOST depression once the 24/7 holiday tunes were over, and I was mostly wrong — which was nice. Fortunately, they had a decent playlist of songs ready to serve up: The Eagles, Billy Joel, Dido and OneRepublic kept my spirits bright (but not as bright as when bells on bobtail ring). Yes, I could dust off a holiday CD and cheat if I ever felt the need for winter festivity, but I try not to.

Each January, I mentally take a deep breath and gaze out over the year ahead, breaking it up into easily digestible chunks of time to get me through to the next time I’m able to shamelessly (read: without being judged by neighbors) decorate for Christmas again. February brings dad’s birthday, March is my parents’ anniversary, April is Easter, May is Memorial Day, June begins summer, July has the Fourth, August is — well, gnarly and sweltering, September gives us Labor Day, October brings Halloween, November gives us Thanksgiving and the day after Thanksgiving is when I can officially begin Christmas at the casa.

And today, a whopping two days into January, additional milestones have found their way to my brain like little stray elves trying to be helpful: a mid-summer wedding to look forward to (not mine, just to clarify), a bike trip through Vermont in October, my sommelier certification course in — I think — November, and let’s not forget wonderful things like new playwriting courses in March or April, tax refunds in the spring and the Red Bull US Grand Prix up in Monterey during July.

All of this just to speed ahead to December.

Today I was taking care of things that required mailing, and I realized I was nearly out of stamps. I decided to pop over to the post office and use their new-fangled ATM-stamp-dispenser-thingy since a human being wasn’t available. When I reviewed the stamp selections, I was overjoyed to see that the only normal stamp option was one called “Holiday Baubles.” Since I don’t mail much, I decided to get two books of stamps (seems contradictory, no?). In my mind, there’s a weird bit of comfort in knowing that the little stamp books I was holding in my hand would accompany me through the year till next Christmas. Maybe one would grace a Christmas card that I’ll endeavor to mail out in 11 months’ time, and I can look at it while remembering this warm day in January when they were purchased.

After the post office, I went to the car wash where I realized that the guys there who have always been so helpful are also a bunch that I’ve managed to develop a bit of rapport with. Instead of just handing me my carwash ticket and making small talk, the main guy who I always see when I first pull in spotted my crutches and wanted the low-down on what I did to myself. And when my car was ready and I began my crutchified limp over toward it, the other man who finished it saw me, hopped in the car and backed it up to me — all to make my journey to my driver’s seat a little shorter. He, too, asked what I did to my knee, helped me load my crutches into the back seat, and shut my door for me once I was situated.

So, as I reflect on today, I thank you, Universe, for making the only regular, selectable book of stamps-for-purchase a holiday-themed one, and for a new year that brought a new dimension to my bi-weekly carwash experience. It was a nice reminder that warmth exists not only in the crackle of logs in a fireplace, but also in people — and that the little reminders of the season can journey with us through the year for as long as we want them to.