Let’s face it: when you are fifty-six years old and overweight, there is no way to fall gracefully.
The first time I fell, it was early morning and I did not realize how close to a curb I was because it was so dark. I slipped off the curb and came down hard on my right shoulder. The second time, the large number of pilgrims coming in from the pouring rain made the floor of the dorm room in the albergue slippery and I ended up flat on my back. This morning, on a steep downhill, I had just passed a sign warning that the rocks were slippery when my feet went out from under me and I was half lying in mud.
All you can do when you fall – as graceless as you may be – is pick yourself up. No one was around for my third fall, so it wasn’t like anyone was going to do it for me. I could lie there in the mud or get up.
So I got up. The first time. The second time. The third time.
And kept walking.
One foot in front of the other.
And if I fall again, I will do the same.