As I settled down to meditate today, there was an undercurrent of restlessness, of anxiety, of anger. I remembered that it had been there since last night, unrecognized, percolating just below the surface.

Fear about my new business. About the impact of one participant’s behavior on future participants. Irritation that the TV in the living room was too loud, invading the whole apartment while I was trying to meditate.

Why, I wondered to myself, was that distracting me when I have meditated during dental work – the most disturbing situation possible?

And then I realize: I’m worried about my sister, who was in a serious accident on Friday. Life not in danger. No bones broken. Nothing torn or lacerated that needs to be operated on or sewn up. No internal bleeding. Just a brain injury – just! – that has left her with symptoms so worrying that the hospital is keeping her for observation.

It’s too soon to tell the duration or severity of the injury and the worst case scenarios include wheelchairs and long-term memory care.

My sister has always been a grasshopper and now winter has set in. The ant in me tries to balance my natural annoyance at short-term decisions with empathy and concern. And just comes up with guilt for having my feelings.

This is the nature of unexpected change, of change that doesn’t resolve itself quickly. If we knew, we could begin to plan, to take action. Since we don’t know, since the change is ongoing, we cannot.

And, of course, it happened while she was away from home, away from us. And her partner can’t travel due to an injury that has him grounded. Luckily, a friend lives right there, a knowledgeable relative a couple of hours away. But, as you may know, when a relative is in the hospital, it’s impossible to get updates from doctors unless you’re physically present on-site. Their schedule never matches up with your own and they are busy people who won’t neglect other patients to answer ignorant questions from someone hundreds of miles away. And, since the patient is always a little out of it – and a completely unreliable narrator, when TBI is involved – you are left without a single version of the truth.

If there is such a thing when waiting and seeing.

And so there is nothing left to do except worry.

Thus, the nature of change.

All I can do is recognize it and let it go.

Repeatedly.