The Full Moon And The Lesson Of The Knee

A Fractured to Freedom Reflection

Last Saturday, I was kneeling in the dirt, pulling weeds.

Now, I know what you might be thinking. A man who has spent decades studying fascia, Qigong, and efficient movement should probably use a long-handled tool and maintain impeccable biomechanics.

But sometimes wisdom takes a back seat to nostalgia.

When I kneel in the soil with a small hand spade, it takes me back to when I was twelve years old. After my father died, my first job was gardening and mowing neighbors’ lawns. It was simple work, but honest work. Hands in the earth. Sun on the back. Quiet thoughts moving like clouds across the sky.

So there I was, decades later, digging weeds the same way I did as a boy.

After a couple of hours, I stood up. My seventy-three-year-old knees immediately filed a formal complaint. Not a gentle suggestion. A full protest.

I stretched a little and kept moving, thinking the body would sort itself out.

But over the next day and a half, the discomfort grew. By Monday morning, when Ginger and I went for our usual walk, I made a classic human mistake.

I rushed.

There’s something about rushing that tightens the body’s entire fascial web. The breath shortens. The nervous system shifts into urgency. Muscles brace. Fascia stiffens like a rope pulled too tight.

By the end of that walk, I could barely put weight on my left leg.

Erin, who is far wiser than I am when it comes to common sense, gently but firmly convinced me to cancel my clients and go to the VA hospital.

During the examination, as the doctor moved my leg, I felt a sharp pop.

Immediately afterward, I couldn’t walk at all.

The X-rays showed no fractures. That was good news. But the doctor suspected a torn attachment in the lateral quadriceps. An MRI would be required to confirm it, but not until after physical therapy.

So I left the hospital on crutches.

Now, if you’ve never seen a Labrador look concerned, I can assure you it’s quite something.

Ginger studied me as if I had suddenly become a very unreliable pack member.

Erin looked worried.

And I felt something deeper than pain. I felt sadness. I’d let down those I loved,

When the body suddenly stops cooperating, it can feel like life itself has hit the brakes.

But healing has its own intelligence, if we’re willing to listen.

So I went to my room, and I began exploring the knee the way I’ve taught my clients for years. I worked through the fascial attachments. I released tension around the quadriceps, the IT band, and the connective tissues surrounding the joint.

And I applied heat.

The emergency doctor had advised ice.

Now, I understand why ice is commonly recommended. It reduces inflammation by restricting circulation.

But from the perspective of fascia, Qi, and tissue nourishment, restricting circulation is sometimes the opposite of what healing requires.

Blood carries oxygen. Fluid movement hydrates fascia. Warmth encourages tissues to soften and reorganize.

So I trusted the body.

Later that evening, a neighbor offered to walk Ginger.

I drove her to the elementary school nearby where we often walk in the evenings. While Ginger and my neighbor wandered the field, I stood there under a full moon.

And suddenly a memory surfaced.

More than thirty-five years ago, I injured my other knee. That injury was my first introduction to Qigong.

At the time, I had learned an exercise called “Holding the Golden Ball.”

But when I practiced it during that earlier injury, the moon happened to be full. Instead of imagining a golden ball between my hands, I visualized holding the moon itself.

Something about that image felt powerful.

Round.

Calm.

Complete.

Over the next forty-five days, thirty-five years ago, my knee healed.

Standing under the moon again all these years later, I smiled.

Apparently, the universe enjoys repeating good lessons.

So there I was, in a quiet schoolyard, crutches leaning nearby, arms raised gently in front of me, holding an imaginary moon.

A grown man practicing Qigong under the night sky.

If anyone had driven by, they might have wondered what in the world I was doing.

But the body understood.

The breath slowed.

The fascia softened.

The nervous system settled.

And something subtle began to change.

After the session, I cautiously placed weight on the leg.

It held.

Today, just a day later, I’m walking normally again — as long as I move slowly and resist the ancient human urge to hurry toward the next task.

This afternoon, I even completed an hour-long client session standing the entire time.

No pain.

Just a little fatigue.

Which, at seventy-three, is a fair trade.

This experience offered three quiet reminders.

First:

Rushing is rarely helpful.

Nature doesn’t rush. Yet everything grows.

When we hurry, our nervous system contracts, and the fascial web tightens in response. Movement becomes mechanical instead of fluid.

Ironically, rushing often slows us down in the long run.

Second:

Pain is not the enemy.

Pain is information.

The body is always communicating through the language of sensation. When we listen carefully instead of fighting the message, healing can begin sooner.

Third:

Sometimes the greatest medicine is remembering what once helped us heal.

Thirty-five years ago, a simple Qigong exercise helped restore my knee.

That practice has stayed with me through decades of life, clients, study, and exploration.

And under the light of the same moon, it showed up again exactly when I needed it.

Healing, it seems, has a memory.

Just like the fascia.

Just like the heart.

And sometimes all we need to do is slow down… lift our hands gently… and remember how to hold the moon.