I was sick this weekend. I don’t get sick often, but when I do I’m usually pretty miserable. Mostly it’s television and hot tea and a pile of spent tissues. I didn’t exercise, I didn’t run errands, I didn’t meditate. I did, however, write. Am I masochist? Am I under some cruel deadline? Am I workaholic? The answers are, not at all, nope, and I doubt it. The odd thing was that when I wrote, I felt just fine. Honestly. For two hours my nose dried up, I stopped coughing, and my head cleared. As always, I found myself hopping up from my chair and pacing around my workspace when the idea was particularly interesting. I had the energy of a man blessed with a full night’s rest he had not, in fact, enjoyed.
Very misleading, all this. I’d push myself from my desk, return to my house, to my life, and, it appears, to my cold. Once inside, back came the coughing and sneezing, and I found my station on the couch beside the box of tissues and in front of the television. On this occasion, however, I took note of this transformation. The cold was real, I suppose, at least as far as my raw upper lip was concerned, but so had been my non-cold while I wrote.
Do you know I was nearly glad for the cold for this reason? To be aware of wellness even while I felt unwell. It does not usually go this way. When I’m sick, I simply lose all sight of wellness and wallow in the snotty misery of it all. On such days, I am the sickness. For this weekend, at least, I understood the truth of it. You are either yourself, or on your way back to yourself—there are no other conditions.
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