The sore throat is even more sore, inflamed, and now a cough's begun. I feel cold all the time. Hopefully, I'll see the doctor today.

As it turns out, the weather's turned chilly, wet, and gray: hard to find a better mirror for how I'm feeling. The wise thing is to be grateful that I had four good days of work on the fence and arbor. Ok, easy enough.

The hardest thing is that I cannot sleep; for the last three days I've been up in the middle of the night because my throat hurts so much: rusty razors on fire. So I get up, go downstairs, make tea with honey, then go downstairs to watch TV until I'm so tired that I know I'll fall asleep.

So what's on at 3am? Informercials about sex gadgets and bowel movements, about how to get rich, about the ultimate kitchen gizmo that solves a problem nothing else in the history of mankind has ever solved, movies that the actors must still have bad dreams about. I've joined another demographic I knew nothing about. I stare with eyes that feel swollen; I wrap myself in a blanket. The house occasionally plinks or sighs, or there's a sound that says that something's fallen, though I can never find anything broken or out of place if the noise is startling enough.  I sit in the dark, hardly breathing, and when I look at the clock, two hours have passed.  At 5am, for three nights, I've heard the wild chatter of birds, the heralds of the dawn: braided, convoluted, insistent.

                        ********************************************************

The magnolia's all-but bare, more branch than tulip flowers.  The Weeping Cherry lasted three days, first delicate white, then delicate pink, and now green. The world's turning green: look through the budding armatures of the tops of the big trees and the sky's stained light green.  Because of this, the daffodils, the narcissi, hyacinths, the tulips are even more luscious, even more delightfully carefree.

Wordsworth captures this surprise, this joy:

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.


"Natural piety": perhaps this is the phrase I've been looking for these months, as I parse my antipathy to religion yet my intimate sense of the mystery of just being alive.




 


Comments

Allan DiBiase
04/29/2013 12:33pm

Don't let them take out your tonsils....

Reply
04/29/2013 12:43pm

I've researched this, and I agree. The reovery is long and difficult, and the results uncertain. I've lived with this admittedly minor but obnoxious complaint this long, I'll live with it to the end.

Reply
Allan DiBiase
04/29/2013 2:41pm

was hoping for a slight echo of your mom in that comment....




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