The norovirus stomach bug ripped through the house this month. The grandbaby got it first, still no telling how … we suspect maybe a shopping cart. Next Dad, Mom and several days later Grandma … that would be me. With each new casualty we dug deeper into Google to find out how to kill the virus in the house and how to prevent further people coming down with the wretched illness.
There’s a deep longing for my routine … which I realize means more to my happiness than I give credit. I miss hygge at sunrise, I miss holding my grandson (for longer than my arms want to bear the weight), I miss making dinner, I miss doing laundry — it gives me a sense of accomplishment even on my worst days. I miss my avatar. I miss Me.
Use to be I would write a lot about the Remembered Self for a chronically ill person. That point in their lives when they felt they were part of the crowd. The time (if there was one) before the illness became a defining factor in their lives. I was never the picture of health, but I certainly had a life that was larger than the one I was living last week.
This is what the practice looks like. An exhausted body with more pain than I know how to cope with amist a mental shit storm that wants to cover the present moment like a Lucas oil monster truck announcer on acid which may be redundant.
Truth is EVERYONE is having a hard time.
In their own way, working with their own situation and their own demons of the dark places inside their mind. It’s easy to forget that when we only see our self in the center ring of the circus. But everyone has a tightrope to walk and regardless of how easy some make it look, the backstory behind the pretty pictures plastered up on insta-my-gram-book would reveal that
everyone suffers to whatever extent they are unable to work with what they wake up with in this immeasurably small moment of Now.
I have not gone missing. I am still Here. Right now. In this moment where sleeping dogs snore, birds sing, the sun peaks through and soft smiles are still possible even in the middle of the discrepancy between what I wish for and what I hold in the palm of my hand. Still here .. I am.