—Journal of the American Geriatrics Society, Vol. 39 THE LAST TIME I FELL DOWN, I was at a Zen meditation retreat. About twenty meditators had gathered in a silent circle on a raised deck in the redwoods for our daily work meeting, and I remember thinking as I walked down the path to join the gathering that my shoes were too big. A few steps short of the deck, in full view of the silent watchers, I slipped on the uneven path. I felt my ankle twisting as I went down. It’s amazing how much you can think about in the split second between tripping and hitting the ground. On my way down I was already worrying that someone would have to leave the retreat and drive me to Sebastopol to get my ankle x-rayed, but that thought was interrupted when my face slammed into the edge of the deck. A collective wail went up from my audience. It didn’t hurt, not exactly—it was too much of a shock. My attention moved from my ankle to my face in a groping attempt to understand what had happened. It was something to do with my mouth.
