James
When I woke up, I had a migraine again. What happens on those mornings feels like a routine, but more from the grinding quality of it all than from any actual repetition. Get up, out of bed, take something, drink a full glass of water. There's a decision making process about what to take. How much time do you have? How bad is it? Over the counter for days when you have time to make buttered toast, when eating it doesn't sound too bad, when you've got time to get back in bed and wait. This morning was leave by 8:30 or else, so it was Rx right away, then back in bed but for twenty minutes only. Forget the shower, can't be helped.
Even so, in bed, I sent text messages to Susan in Hawaii about my bad dream, and she wrote back, "Still, just a dream." That helped. Then the mini-farm came to me, and I thought of everything that might be there, hammocks and tea lights and extra shawls and a big basket of hand knit socks and maybe for once in my life I could keep a houseplant alive. At work, I was invited to lunch and later a lot of people I like will sing to me, no instruments, just voice. I'm hoping for perfect imperfection. I'm hoping. I'm hopeful.
1 comment:
Another beautiful post, Heather.
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