Thursday, May 21, 2009

Out of Bed

I've spent around 34 hours bedridden with some kind of body cold and fever. Throbbing congestion in the head and the whole body aching, as if from the bones, together with the chills and hot sweats; this all went into preventing any lengthy rest. I don't remember my blankets ever being sopped so much from sweat.

Today was largely regaining strength; and there's still a bit of sinus congestion.

But the worst thing about illness like this is the mental stuff. What you do with your mind as you lay there tossing and turning or trying not to toss and turn; as the light you saw rise through the blinds at morning slowly goes dim again and into another long night. We always like to think that when things come down to the nitty-gritty we will have the grace in us to pray through whatever it may be. Sure, we do, but the grace doesn’t look like we think it would. The grand heroic pain-offering, like some final symphonic crescendo; the theatrical interior orans of the soul going up to God, having crossed the threshold of pain to simply not there. If one chooses, if one even remembers, it is given up in the most feeble, inarticulate manner - and even then, in retrospect, tranquility and abandon were sorely lacking, and as for praying continuously…yeah, right.

You don't have recourse to the faculty of imagination in its healthy state. The imagination becomes the prey of insanity. Really, what were those insane half-dreams I had that caused literal pain, that wouldn't stop?

I'm not complaining, nor, I hope, being self-indulgent; just trying to write about stuff, and say that one learns. I got up this morning and fed my growling stomach with delicious granola cereal, half a mango and tea; went and looked at the garden; went and picked up some picture hanging wire (painting goes to the judges tomorrow evening); pulled up the first humble radishes before supper.

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