I sit here now, loving the mindfulness, that pain requires if we stay with it, allow it. I took one Ibuprofen and my stomach rebelled, so the prescription sits unused. I open to the pain, throbbing, tapping, healing, golden in light with maybe some rose-pink. Might as well play with imagination and paint sunrises and sunsets in my gums and mouth.
It was sunny yesterday, warm, and my book group met yesterday in the afternoon, and sat outside. We re-read Middlemarch. We've learned it is important to read the classics every twenty years, as response is completely different each time. Reception of the book changes as we change.
What an intellect was George Eliot, Mary Ann Evans. How would that intellect have been used if she had the possibilities of these times? Perhaps she would be an Elizabeth Warren, though she didn't have looks, and yet, her incredible mind taps us awake even today.
George Eliot in Middlemarch.
"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heartbeat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."
This morning was clear. Now the fog has settled in, softly, lightly, a soft gray that will open to blue. Meanwhile the green of the trees reaches in to me, a stroke of peace. The birds settle in the fog, rest.
I am aware that though I don't like medical procedures, each one allows me to pause, rest, and feel what is going on, truly going on. I am aware. This week each bite of food is chosen carefully, is nourishing, necessary, and is a treat. I am grateful for food, for the mind in teeth, jaw, and throat. I feel my stomach and intestines processing what is offered, what comes through. Grateful. Gratitude.
Can I keep this? Can we "keep" anything? Would we want to? And yet this moment, so precious. As I lay in bed this morning, I could feel my neck "come to resting" in a way I don't recall before. Support. Support is here.
I was Toastmaster at my club Wednesday night. I had chosen the theme of "Connection and Getting to Know You". Together, we sang the song from the musical The King and I, "Getting to Know You". It was rousing. We are here together, connected in growing and finding common ground.
Rod McKuen has died at the age of 81. I enjoyed him, but my college roommate idolized him. I had no idea of the suffering that led to the creation of his poems.
Perhaps we can never know what forms another, but we can listen closely with ears open as paws on glass.
January has been a month of reflection for me. I've had two procedures that required rest and meditation. I give thanks for this time given to me, to hear, see, feel, and receive. Gratitude, my fuel, my honoring, of path.