T S Eliot, in 1922, prophesied April's cruelness.

(This was typed up within a couple of weeks since the event hence the past tense in some parts.)

The thing about experiencing a car crash is how quick your thoughts are driven to the idea that your flesh will eventually turn to ash, or dust, or whatever.  The combination and collision of metal, tar road, a rainy day, and when the sun had not yet had its opportunity to adorn your day, is...it's quite the situation.  For the nights that follow you are reminded of a mortality that you long put to sleep.
Now, my accident was nothing close to a near-death experience, hell I got out of the car and circled it a few times, looking at my wristwatch, thinking absolutely nothing, but building up an inward frenzy.  I did not nearly die, no.  My only hindrance post was not being able to commence the asana practices I had recently picked up again.  But the event was my first (and prayerfully, last) serious car accident.  I've never spent nights in a hospital due to illness or some other misfortune, so this was my closest experience to chucking deuces to Life.

And when you're prone to depression most incidents are immensely and intensely experienced.  You quickly and easily find yourself on a path back to a solemness and a contemplative disposition.  The malady crawls into bed with you to remind you of other beloveds who experienced the same fate, fatally.

But you also learn to look at those who love and care for you with new eyes.  Your responses to the banal are less affected.  You remember to laugh more often.  To dance with abandon.  To love with expression.

Those who have lent me support have sown a bed of eternal gratitude in my heart for themselves; it's true: not everybody is capable of lending you their light when your hour has fallen to darkness.  I appreciate and I cherish, and I never forget.

I have always been a kind of fearless driver on the roads, I hope this incident (of April 3rd) will not tarnish that spirit; only time will tell (I'll be car-less for some time).  For now though, I'm just grateful to the Great I Am, for lessons, and for this water—my life.

True to Eliot's word—for the rest of April, and for every Wednesday since the day—my sailing has been anything but smooth.