"K. here is good with the raquet sports," a friend says.

"Really," I say.

"Oh yeah," K. says. "You should see me play badminton. I can really knock that cock around."

~ There has got to be another way to say that.

-- "Do you know you just dipped your scarf in your coffee?"

-- "Is that a bottle of JUICE you have on the floor?"

-- "Are all these papers yours?"

I sense that she wants to grab a washcloth, clean me up a little. 

"Time for bed, friend," I say. "It's been a loooong Friday."

"It's Friday?" the boy says. "Shouldn't you be... out?"

I push a toy car into the basket. "Out where?"

"You know. Out at a store or something."

"Well, I came here to see you."

He frowns, considers. "I guess that makes sense."

Today we practice falling. Standing in our lines, dropping in unison. There's a correct way to do this, we're told — letting our bodies absorb the fall, slapping arms out to the side. Don't try to catch yourself, our teacher says. You could break something that way. 

Lower-ranking folks like me start from a crouch and roll back, slapping the floor. Repeat. Gradually working up to drop from standing.

This is to prepare you for take-downs, we're told. If you're going to get thrown around, it's better to know how to fall.

***

When I'm eight or nine I take ice-skating lessons, sailing around the rink on the blades of sturdy rental skates. My ankles wobble and tilt but I love the exhilaration of gliding as fast as I possibly can. Most of the time this ends in a drift towards the wall and a slow thud-landing as I haven't yet perfected the art of stopping on the blade.

You need to learn how to fall, our teacher says. Look:

She demonstrates this from a full-on sprint across the ice: legs sliding sideways, landing gracefully on a hip.

Now you try, she says.

I get myself up to flying speed, drop to the right and hit the ice hard.

...OW.

Again, she says.

After a time, it becomes a favorite game to dash quickly on skates and land on one hip, body sliding, pants gathering wet patches on contact. Look, Mom!

Even knowing how to fall, there's the unexpected. I try a simple trick and my feet dart from under me like minnows. A silver flash of blades, then down. Pain steeps in but I shake it off, hide it from my mother. 

You kids be careful! Is what my parents say.

Okay! I promise, crossing fingers behind my back.

***

The bigger falls are, of course, more difficult to prepare for. Like catching a leg-sweep in martial arts class, some surprise and leave me breathless.

...You're fired.

...He's been dating me, too.

...She passed away in the night.

In the moment, some of these tumbles feel insurmountable. I hit the floor and am aware of how easy it would be to stay down, swimming here forever.

Eventually, though, something intervenes: an instinct to push myself off the floorboards, stagger forward, try this again.

***

The couch sits thick and blue on the street beside the U-haul. I've been lifting furniture with my friend all afternoon and this is nearly the last.

On three, he says to me, we lift. You ready?

I rub hands together. Yep!

Okay. He crouches on his side of it. One... Two... Three!

I lift, smack myself in the face with the protruding arm of the couch. Legs crumple like a baby foal and I sit back down on the pavement.

You all right? He asks, but I'm laughing too hard to answer.

Okay! I say. Yes. I can do this. Laughing and breathless, I stand. Shake it off. Brace myself for another go.

This was a practice foreign to me. What the HELL is that? I said to my sister, circling the block in search of parking. Is that a... chair? In the STREET?

She laughed at me; said to hop out of the car and move it, take the spot anyway.

Won't they key the car then? Or slash tires?

Yep, she said. Probably.

So I drove on, bitching about the AUDACITY of people who attempt to claim PUBLIC  STREET SPACE — I mean, is there no integrity? Compassion? COMMUNITY? — and put the car somewhere else.

And therein lies my greatest problem with all things winter and snow: The car.

The shrewd observer may have gleaned that my automobile falls somewhat short of desirable. A ten-year old Saturn beat down by the experience of running around with me, bumper stickers patching a medley of scrapes and scratches on the rear, missing a hubcap: That's my baby. I like to consider its appearance something akin to a built-in anti-theft system.

Woah, this car looks like shit!

(Heck yeah it does.)

In dry sunny weather with moderate temperatures, the Saturn runs like a charm. In the damp it grumbles, tosses on the Service Engine Soon light on principle. Rain makes it drive like a sled, gliding down the highway in a long controlled slide. In the snow and ice it's anyone's guess. I take the wheel and offer up a wish and a prayer, turn the key, take my chances.

Take my chances, I say — and yet, when last on the highway in the snow, I noticed how often my hands clenched the wheel, body tensing for impact. Eyes darting quick to the concrete divider to my left, the guard rail to the right. Tires slipping and catching again.

My thoughts turned toward the concept of self-protection, to moments I'd catch myself bracing for a crash. Driving the car with caution is one matter; emotional guarding is another thing entirely. But the similarities jumped to the front of my consciousness and stuck. What good does either one do, really? Preparing for the inevitable — what does that truly mean?

It's like I said to my father once: I don't really see the point in worry.

Something will happen or it won't, and, well — I'll deal with whatever it is then.

The car might hit the guard rail and smash. A person might disappoint. Something I considered a constant might fail. But... and... with any luck, life carries on.

I'd like to tell you that this awareness changed my driving style, that I no longer hug the steering wheel with panic and prayer.

Not so.

I still tense up when I feel things slipping, when something begins to drift out of my control. But this also creates a reminder to breathe, trust, let go.

— And, perhaps, to invest in snow tires next time.

2. Say hello to writing friends. Explain that you will be WORKING here, that you have FIFTEEN MINUTES TO WRITE. Say this seriously. Then engage in a five-minute conversation about the depth of the snow and Philadelphia's somewhat apathetic approach to operating a snow plow.

3. Wander up to the counter. Spend another five minutes talking while shopping for holiday treats: peppermint bark, gift cards, chocolate. Order a beverage with enough caffeine to power a small vehicle.

4. Wander back to the table where friends are writing. Spend two minutes posting pictures of snow to Facebook and clicking "like!" on status updates.

5. Glance at clock. Use the F-word a few times, but silently. 

6. Stare off into space for a full minute. During this minute, realize that will likely be late to work too. Consider the use of the F-word again.

7. Type a confessional litany at full speed. Slam a gulp of coffee. Scoop up belongings and run back out the door, striped scarf trailing. Call this another day.

That I was crossing a crowded room at a party, felt a pinch, and looked down to a girl sitting on the floor.

"Yeah," she said. "I bit your ass. It had to be done."

That's my life.

My sources say no.

Reply hazy, try again.

Outlook not so good.

...Screw you, Magic 8.

It's a habit of mine to claim that I want answers, to talk up the value of clarity. Except, apparently, when I don't like the response. I fling this oracle aside.

Life paints bold murals from little moments that gather and crystallize. I reach for examples to showcase here and come back empty-handed, thinking instead about a recent coffeehouse conversation that circled around this concept: that all that we notice foreshadows what is, what is to become. Our lives create stories if we remember to pay attention.

My hands, knuckles bruised and scarred, reach for the mug and offer up the taste of espresso and soy. Taking in this moment, allowing myself to sit with all that is and breathe before dropping the shade again: blanketing myself in busy and rushing out into the day.

Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart. -Rainer Maria Rilke

(Clearly, I chose the hair.)

One thing I can tell you about today: this short-sleeved shirt was a bad idea.

These December mornings drag up and out of a frost-encrusted slumber for which a heat setting of 66 degrees is no match. Bare feet hit the hardwood floor and tremble, seek out the warmth of blankets again. But I am firm with them, nudging myself on to a new day that will be full from start to finish.

Leaving the house, my eyes tear in the cold. Keys meet door in a frantic fumble. I scramble into the car in a wake of belongings: laptop and martial arts clothing scatter on the passenger seat; a water bottle hits the floor. The car hiccups to life. 

This is the morning chill.

The evening chill happens when I discover that it really wasn't a good idea to put my gi pants in the clothes drier; that the tag reading "air dry" was perhaps more of an imperative than a suggestion.

The pants shrink vertically so that they now ride about an inch up the ankle. Pair this with low-cut socks and black martial arts sneakers, and the look is right off the fashion runways in New York.

Ankle! The new black!

Leaving the studio at night, winter finds this strip of exposed skin between shin and foot and wraps it in icy fingers. I sigh, resign myself to this. Hustle to the car all over again.

He's talking about a manuscript I'm editing here in this workshop and no, I hadn't noticed — but I play with the idea, take it literally and see where it goes. Think about the pathways in my life and how viscerally they steep in my memory — patterns of color and texture, vivid and real.

***

Saturday night, tea lights glow warm and bright in the living room dusk. I sit on the floor on carpet a shade of sand, legs outstretched in tall black boots that zip up my calves. A glass of wine next to me on the table, red, catches the light of the candles. I am surrounded by warmth and happy.

In the kitchen at this party, I am laughing because I successfully roasted a slice of pepperoni over a tea light and persuaded someone to eat it. I lift my glass to toast myself and someone turns, clashes into it with his beer bottle, a splash of Cabernet spreading.

Oooooh shit! But we're laughing still.

My fault!—

No, mine, truly—

Reaching for paper towels that absorb great blotches that purple on contact. Wiping down the cabinets, crouching on the floor. Linoleum cold beneath my hands.

This memory links to another: the night before Thanksgiving, standing in the kitchen of a house party with people I do not know. I'm holding a glass of Cabernet here too, warm and glad to be out with new friends. Lesson learned, sister: stop raising glasses. Someone walks right into this one, too — wine absorbing into my white shirt.

Wait! It's okay! He says to me, tracing the impression of wine on white. This is actually the face of Che Guevara, don't you see?

Yes. Or this is my personal ink blot test... right?

And all I can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all.

From here I think back to a year ago: my apartment in West Philadelphia, sitting on the radiator by the window with a burgundy blanket wrapped around my shoulders, watching the snow fall. Passionfruit tea in a pottery mug. The radiator is warm, the tea is hot, but I am frozen to the core. 

I breathe into this stillness, solitary. Allow myself to dive into sadness and swim here for a while. There's a change ahead and I can see it coming in spite of my wishes to the contrary.

Better to be alone, my friend tells me, than to be in an inauthentic relationship based on fear. 

***

Transitions? Yes. I weave in and out of these varying relationships with myself, with others. Sometimes I cringe at the memory, but ultimately I have to love all of it.

This is life, my friend, is what my sister says to me. Jump in with both feet. We're going to be okay.

And at the end of the day, all I can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Take a breath.

Keep going.