I’m pleased to report that, as far as we know, I’m not dead. I make this statement because a lot of messages have been arriving in my inbox asking questions like: 

“Why hasn’t Sean been writing lately?” And, “Where is the daily column?” And, “Is Sean dead? Did he get hit by a Mack truck? Where the [bleepity bleep] is he!!!?”

The fact is, I am still in a somewhat conscious state. Although over the past two weeks I have often wished I wasn’t. Namely, because I have been recovering from three broken ribs. 

How I broke my ribs is not important. But I will simply add here, as a public service announcement: Whenever your sister, wife, and two nieces beg you to ride a tube towed behind a fast pontoon, your best bet is to stick with the Mack truck.

I have included a video depicting the accident. 

WARNING: The attached video contains graphic dumbassity. 

When your ribs are broken, everything hurts. Walking hurts. Breathing hurts. Using the remote control hurts. Even the act of drinking a beer hurts. Which is why you must drink two. 

For the first stretch of rehab, I was forced to sleep in an upright posture. Which is difficult inasmuch as this position goes against everything your body wants during the sleep process. 

While sleeping, your body wants to shift around, roll over, stretch out, and most importantly, retrieve stolen blankets from your wife who clutches the covers in a death-grip fetal position. But with injured ribs, you don’t move. If you move even slightly your ribcage feels like it’s being picked apart by baby vultures. 

With wounded ribs, simply rising to use the restroom in the middle of the night is a harrowing task. First, you must use your abdominal muscles to thrust yourself out of the bed. This abdominal flex pulls your thorax. You moan and wince beneath your own body weight and stagger to the bathroom. 

In the bathroom, you are faced with even more physical challenges such as: remembering to put the toilet seat down, which you accidentally forget to do. And as a result, late one night, you are awoken by yells coming from the bathroom because your wife has unwittingly fallen into the toilet. After which she storms into the bedroom, cussing. And this is how you break three more ribs. 

In short, you sleep poorly. You wake up each morning tired. You crawl out of the bed, you hobble into the kitchen, make coffee, and try with all your fortitude NOT to cough, clear your throat, or—God help you—blow your nose. Which might kill you. 

Blowing your nose. Oh, how you miss it. You haven’t blown your nose in weeks. Once upon a time, you blew your nose several hundred times before breakfast. Blowing your nose never struck you as all that special before. But now you realize that expelling stubborn nasal mucus is actually one of your favorite pastimes. 

The broken ribs changed my morning routine. After making coffee, I’d wander onto the porch to wake up, rub sleep from my eyes, gently collapse in a chair, and fight away my three dogs, none of whom understood why I was suddenly uninterested in tug-of-war with disgusting chewed-up toys. 

Mostly, I’d just sit, trying to find the elusive Comfortable Position. I’d remain in one place and simply watch the lake. 

I’d watch the ducks and geese, flitting and flapping. The Canada geese continually squawk at each other as though they are having a heated argument with their spouses. (“Do NOT tell me to calm down, Harold…”) 

I’d watch our lake’s resident ducks, Lucy and Ricky, who also quack at each other in the same aggressive tones. (“I feel like you never listen to me, Ricky…”)

And I’d just sit, watching the sunrise. Watching clouds. Occasionally playing my fiddle, music bouncing across the lake like the sound of a wounded cat looking for its mother. 

During those first few mornings I realized something important about myself. I learned that I work too much. 

I’ve been working since I was 14. Which I realize is nothing extraordinary. But for most of my life, I’ve tried to be productive. And I have been, mostly. Even so, at which point in life did I shift from being productive to seeking approval? 

How long have I been looking for validation from my work instead of from who I am? How many years have I been striving to become somebody instead of enjoying being who I already am? When did I lose touch with myself?

Moreover, when did all this technology take over my life? When did my life become nothing but glowing screens and nonstop digitization? What happened to that young man I used to be, who used to pass entire weekends reading books, spoon-feeding himself peanut butter, going barefoot, and leaving toilet seats down?

Since I started writing professionally, I have given my all to my work. I am not proud of how hard I’ve worked; I’m moderately embarrassed. Because my life has become all about output. 

I have seldom taken breaks. I have even pulled over on the sides of major highways, in the middle of the night, in far-flung states, whipped out my laptop, and worked on a book project deadline until one in the morning. And for what? Why? When do I rest? Do I even deserve rest? And if so, why don’t I take it?

Believe me, I’m not complaining about my life. I love my life. I grew up as an underprivileged kid. I have known want. I have nothing to complain about. 

Still, for too many years I’ve tried so hard to be productive that I forgot to just be. I come from a family of workaholics. I’ve been unintentionally trying to win their approval even though most of them are dead from overwork. 

When did I forget how to just sit in one place? When did I forget the fine art of accomplishing nothing? When did my life become a competition to outdo myself? 

So my morning routines shifted into just sitting. No writing. No working. No laptops. No phones. No texting. No emails. No thinking. Just watching. 

And as I embraced this new peaceful regimen, my days became less notable. One day blended into another. I became unproductive and unprofessional. Editors were emailing angrily. Friends didn’t understand. My dogs stared at me with chew toys dangling in their mouths, silently judging me. 

Even so, I found myself having long thought-conversations with myself again. I caught myself going on long walks only to realize that I’d accidentally left my phone at home. 

I rediscovered daily naps. I rediscovered the ancient craft of porch sitting. I rediscovered crossword puzzles, cryptograms, solitaire, and going barefoot. And over time, I began to heal. Little by little. I am healing. 

And I’m not talking about my ribs.