One early morning a few weeks ago, I was sitting in my usual spot at 5:30 AM, snuggled up on the chair in the corner surrounded by my books. Just as I was settling in,  I heard the sound of running water.

I left my little sanctuary and went to the kitchen. We filter our drinking water in a Brita pitcher and I often put it under the tap but then forget about it. But I hadn’t forgotten to turn the water off. This time.

I returned to my chair and looked out the window at a wet driveway.  The weather had been a few unseasonably warm the past few days with some rain mixed in. It had undoubtedly rained again last night.

Once again, as I looked for the silence to surround me, I could hear the low murmuration of running water. Once again I left my comfy chair in search of running water. This time I went into the basement.

Of course today when I went to take a picture of the little stream in our basement, it was only a drip,

but that morning, it had been a steady stream pouring out of the pipe and into the gravel.

It bothered me.

I went upstairs to try to finish my morning reading and that laughing water was like Poe’s Tell Tale Heart. It seemed to get louder and louder until it was the only thing I could hear.

I could picture all sorts of water-related disasters. As soon as it was a reasonable time I called the contractor we use for work on the house.

When he came over, I showed him the basement stream. He shone his flashlight all around the basement, at the walls, at the stream, on the dirt floor, and back again at the corner where the water was pouring in. “This really isn’t in my wheelhouse,” he said. “I’ll send my plumber over.”

When the plumber came, he looked all around the basement too. “This is an old house,” he said, “and the water is going somewhere. You could do this, or this, or this,” and he laid out a few options that may or may not fix the problem, “but to be honest with you, I’d just leave it.”

“But I can hear it,” I insisted.

“It’s okay. The water is going somewhere. It’s not filling your basement,” he said. He mentioned again the other options, emphasizing their pros and cons, adding, “If it was my house, I wouldn’t do anything.”

I opted to do nothing.

And I sat there for the next several mornings, listening to the gurgle one floor beneath me.

Morning after morning, I murmured my prayers while the water murmured below.

It became part of the background music of early morning.

Then, it just disappeared. I can’t even tell you when.

But I’m sure it will be back, with the next thaw and/or heavy rain.

When it returns, I won’t panic. I’ll just listen.

Bud told me that a woman at church had mentioned seeing me out for a run. “She doesn’t run,” he told her, “she just walks really fast.”

I was out for a walk the other day when I took a tumble. I do walk at a pretty fast clip, so when the toe of my sneaker caught on a bit of uneven sidewalk, I went down hard. Right onto my left knee.

I limped back to my car, about 3/4 of a mile away, stopping to rest on the stone bridge and take pictures of Tuga. On this day, no man was talking on his cell phone there so I didn’t feel self-conscious.

I kept reaching down to feel my knee through my jeans. I could barely touch it without severe pain, but I couldn’t see what the damage was. The wound was painful but, without seeing it, still abstract.

When I got home, I went into the bathroom to inspect my knee. The egg on my knee reminded me of the egg on Karl’s head the time “Fred” talked him into stepping into a spackle bucket with a rope on the handle that he had hanging over the edge of the cellar stairs.

“Let’s play Paul-in-a-basket and I’ll lower you down over the city wall,” he said.

It did not end well.

I iced my knee and put my leg up. Look up knee injury on the internet and the advice is nearly always the same — RICE: Rest – Ice – Compression – Elevation. I didn’t compress my knee though; I could barely touch it.

Mary and Laurel were a huge help, cleaning up the dinner stuff and fixing my father his nightly bowl of ice cream.

I took two ibuprofen and went to bed early. The injury knocked the wind out of me.

I really don’t have time for this, I told God as I fell asleep. He listened. In the morning, I felt completely better.

Not really — but the egg was gone from my patella. I could still see the redness and the abrasion where I had hit, but the real swelling was now in big circle around the patella.

It has now been three days since the fall. Bruising is settling in below my knee.

I find the whole thing fascinating — the way my patella absorbed a huge impact, then dispersed a cushion of fluid around the point of impact, and now even that is settling. The tenderness is minimal and only around the outskirts of my knee. Okay — I still can’t kneel, but I can do everything else.

The human body is a pretty amazing piece of self-healing machinery, don’t you think?

And that silly fall is not going to prevent me from walking today or tomorrow.

Snow may take care of that.