The sky is dark grey nearly every day now. Through the empty tree branches occasional black clouds slurry patches of heavy rain. Winter is settling in, requiring books, and fires, and steaming cups and bowls by fires or under duvets on the couch. It’s a time for togetherness and being alone, for regrets and reminiscences, and most of all for just being. A time for hibernation.

Recovery is a long slow process if it happens. Being ill is a strange uncharted journey.  It is personal and only tangentially includes others. That is not to say that others are not involved, rather for a time they are peripheral to one’s immediate world and needs.

A fine mist lingered this morning. (I grew up calling it ground fog.) It hugged the earth about knee level. Above it, as the ground dipped and swelled, sun highlighted grey swirls and drifts. Patches of blue shared the sky with clouds. It was a mixed message. I could not always see where I was stepping, but the sun seemed to urge me forward. My weeks have been filled with physical and occupational therapy, nebulizing inhalants, exercising my arms and legs to regain strength, blood tests and doctor visits. Each day I can walk a bit further, connected to oxygen of course. There is always a limitation, the big issue that won’t change, but still the patches of strength and energy are welcome intervals. Worthy of meditation, consideration of the value of both sides. How one defines the other. Some days the fog drifts higher, the balance shifts, more grey than sunlight. The new norm. We are done traveling.

We eat early this time of year. I make soups and breads. We read by the fireplace and make short trips to the kitchen for tea or cocoa. We make quiet memories now, the comfort of home and each other. It’s more than enough.

Blessings

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