My back and I had a difference of opinion. I wanted to be vertical, while she preferred being horizontal. The dispute arose after two weeks of sewing camp, which entails bending over machines and leaning over tables. Then there were the girls who preferred to lay their projects on the expansive floors, and needed assistance. 

In any case, in the afternoon of the last day the pain increased to the point that the walk across the parking lot loomed long. 

I drove to my next two jobs assisting the elderly and would have laughed at the irony that they were more limber than me, but using my diaphragm sounded painful. 

I had not yet written a story and asked John to put a rerun in the queue. Surely by the next day, I would regain mobility. 

No such luck. No story went out that day.

I have noticed that my gratitude for electricity increases dramatically when the power goes out. Such luxuries as jogging and picking up socks from under the couch now felt like bucket items, as I faced my own limits. 

For forty eight hours I succumbed to uselessness. 

Rediscovering my mortality, not that I will perish from back pain, strikes me as being worth the price. There are people all around me who bear physical limitations, and upping my compassion whittles away at my tendency to forget that.