This past year seems to have been all about teaching me to be patient and let go of the need to be constantly busy and accomplishing things. The universe seems to be conspiring to teach me to just be in the moment. This past week is a prime example; never in all my life have I missed an entire week of work because I was sick. But I just can't seem to shake this horrible, uncontrollable, hacking cough and laryngitis. (Today, though, my voice is deep enough that I could sing "Old Man River.")
As luck would have it, the weather has been idyllic -- clear cold crisp sort of autumn days that ordinarily would spur me into action. I want to be out in that fresh air under that blue sky, digging in my garden or walking my dogs along the lake. I want to be finishing the list of a million things I need to get done before winter comes. Instead, I'm flopped on the couch with a three-inch thick book (mysteries, translated somewhat stumblingly from the Italian), surrounded by cough drops, hot mint tea, and rolls of tissue, and I have accomplished zilch. It is depressing, and humbling, and irritating. It would be better if the weather was sullen and rainy. I wouldn't feel I was missing so much. Here I am with a week off work and I can't DO anything. It's very frustrating.
Brio, poor chap, can tell I'm not well, and his distress mirrors my own. Every time I launch into another violent coughing jag, he presses against me and whines. He follows me to the bathroom door, wedges himself between me and the kitchen cupboards as I stand at the counter, stands sentinel when I'm in the shower. Whenever I sit down, he lies with his head in my lap and watches me worriedly. I try to reassure him with my hand on his head, and the warm little furry weight leaning against me is a comfort. That's love, right there, pouring out of those big brown eyes. Better medicine than any cough drop.
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