I hate this: being too weak to go make mead, or drink with my friends last night, but well enough to clean and put away my winter clothes, mop, and slowly plod around my lonely house. Infection is a funny thing, a thing I don't have a lot of experience with. It feels like a betrayal from the body I routinely abuse and deny--which is to say: a deserved betrayal long coming but none the less jarring. It's such a little cut.
So I'm taking very good care of myself. I have my small concessions: especially chocolate milk. I'm wearing a shirt which makes my breasts look really nice, to impress the spiders I'm sweeping away, or the pigeons poking around on the roof outside my window. For dinner, I made myself broth and ate it alone out on my garden steps. Now I'm eating Haagen-Dazs strawberry sorbet at my desk directly from the pint.
I had to tell my mom today that one of her old friends had passed away . She'd been away all week at an ecology camp with her school kids, so she hadn't heard, and it didn't seem right for her to find out on facebook. She started to cry on the phone. I felt ineffective and heartbroken, and like I haven't done very well for mother's day.
There are storms out to the west, but I think they'll likely break up on the mountains. Today has been damp, but it's made everything flush green. The pansies in my garden are going crazy, and my tall pink snapdragon is blooming.
Somehow, I feel like I won't really be sleeping much this evening.
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