Thanks to my broken ankle, I am spending the summer in a Lay-Z-Boy, with my right leg encased in a big black boot. No hikes. No travel. No swimming. No cute little summer skimmers. It's a matter of patience. These things take eight weeks to heal. EIGHT weeks? I couldn't believe it when I first heard it. I have THINGS to do. And then I remembered a poem I had memorized when I was in junior high school, and which for some reason stayed with me--John Milton's Sonnet on His Blindness. That memory was further entrenched when I took a course on Milton in college, and probably came to the surface when I began more serious studies of the Puritans more recently. Needless to say, it puts things in perspective.Sonnet on His Blindness. 'When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.'