Dear friend,
The plague has hit our little cottage and while the other five members of my family have broken free of its grasp, I find myself still under the weather. A deep cough has settled into my lungs, my eyes can barely open to the sunlight coming in the window, and I’m averaging at least three baths per day in an effort to stave away the chills/hot-flashes.
In the middle of one such bath today, I looked up (startled!) to see Juliette hovering over the bathtub. With one hand she was covering her eyes (good on her) and with the other, was reaching out and offering me a plate of peanut butter & honey toast — a slathered, dripping piece of comfort that she had made for me.
Her thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes and I gladly accepted the sustenance. I ate the toast right there in the bathtub, tears in my eyes, pondering how such a lovely creature came to be under my wing.
Being sick has a way of shutting up a certain voice in my head — and I’m glad to have her quiet for a moment. I'm grateful for the pause — and for the soup that heals me.
Though the plague doesn’t have the same effect on my husband, I always find that feeling this poorly makes me quite emotional (hence the peanut butter toast tears). In the midst of the sickness, I want Stuart to hold my hand and sit next to me in bed. I want endless mugs of dandelion tea and fuzzy socks and sweet hugs from my littles. The plague has made me feel all sorts of emotionally squishy.
I find myself with tears welled in my eyes multiple times per day, as if my heart has softened… or perhaps my body is taking a sigh of relief. Perhaps it’s because I don’t have the mental or physical energy to be uptight or stressed out. I’m not angry that the dishwasher wasn’t unloaded or that chewed bits of pencils litter the floor, because I simply don’t have the energy to be angry. My head is aching and my only ambition is to add or remove blankets from my bed as the fever ebbs and flows.
Because I ventured upstairs for more kleenex and tea, I know for a fact that school books are strewn about the kitchen table, rings from morning smoothies are crusted onto the coffee table, unfolded laundry sits motionless in the laundry basket, supper remains unplanned, and I highly doubt if all my children have showered or brushed their teeth today.
But, to be honest, I’m quite happy to have that voice in my head shut up for a few days.
To keep the cottage vibrant and tidy requires a fully-present homemaker. It’s with her magic that floors are vacuumed, bread rises, and lunches are packed for homeschool coop tomorrow. And yet… without her, momentarily, it does not crumble. It’s just a bit crustier than normal. Okay — quite a bit crustier than normal.
Though I wouldn’t wish to have the plague, I do appreciate the way it all but stops the normal pace of life; a pace which I find, unapologetically, offensive. Stuart and I link arms and bolster each other’s spirits on the daily, reminding ourselves that such a pace cannot continue forever and that, someday, braces and piano lessons and Latin tests wouldn’t be a part of our world in such an intimate way, and there will in-fact be a future in which the density of life feels a little bit less… dense.
As I’ve sat here in bed over these past few days, I’ve noticed the bird song and the sunrises. I’ve dabbled with the citrus trees that line my bedroom window and have slowly begun to pollinate the fragrant blossoms with the tip of a dry paintbrush, gently brushing the pollen around from blossom to blossom as if my brush were the tips of a bee’s toes.
I haven’t had the energy to clean my room, but I’ve taken the energy to appreciate it; I’m not making plans for it, daydreaming about rearranging it, or writing up to-do lists about what it still needs. I’m just curled up in bed admiring the way the sun is coming through the curtains.
The plague doesn’t allow me to think too far into the future, stress too deeply about the past, or seize the day; it forces me to speak quietly, sip gently, and not add anything further to the to-do list. I’m sick of the to-do list anyway.
As a normally overly-productive person, I think it rather pleasant to sit without my normal ideas and ambitions. The plague has simplified life for me in this way, with the only objective being to rest and recover.
For a brief moment, I don’t exist to work or produce or earn. For a brief moment, I just am.
In pajamas.
Without makeup.
Without advancement.
Without performance.
I just am.
I’d simply go mad if the plague kept me here for too long… but for a sliver of time, I am actually quite grateful for the pause.
And since one still must eat, here’s what I’d recommend requesting from your family in such a moment:
May your heart be soft and your soup bowl be full, my friends.
Love,
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