For Easter weekend, perhaps I too will seal myself into some sort of metaphorical tomb. There's not a lot of rebirth in my life right now; it's more obsessing over the same things over and over again all day every day forever. Some people are probably ending Lent this weekend, or fixing elaborate meals - hams and roasts and lamb shanks. But I'm doing nothing and going nowhere. Well, I do have a duck breast, but cooking has been hard this week. Everything has been hard this week.

At least being totally incapacitated has lead to a sort of self-reflection on my inability to sit still or "rest." Doing nothing is not, and has never been, relaxing for me, and makes me a lot worse than I already am, and that's saying something. I hate sitting around. When I'm too weak to insanely prowl around doing things, I feel full of pathetic little furies. The word that comes to mind is "blocked" - not just in the sense of physical limits, though I have that in plenty, but energywise too, the way I'd talk about it in a tarot reading. 

In the graveyard, the dogwoods are starting to bloom. I can see them from my window.