Writing
Notes from my Sick Bed:
Been ill all week and have spent most of it in bed looking at the tree and the sky from my window.
On day one I felt bad about all I wasn't doing and those my absence was disappointing. One day two, I felt more of the same peppered with waves of poor me. My brain registering only aches and mortality. On day three, I felt ta rush of spaciousness. A liberation borne of doing nothing and having nothing to do.
It was in this terrain of untethered freedom that I met the limbs outside the window and noticed the sun glow lichen
mapping the bark's topography; mending its knuckle ridged joints with its salve-like body.
And all the while, behind this, the clouds transfiguring the blue sky into a patter of respondent air waves--mists and billows, upsurges and waylays--proving to me which direction the wind blows and how glorious the give and take of wonder soaked eyes.
I heard my own heartbeat as I laid there still, one ear pressed to pillow. My own life force, it was,
not tree or sky,
that birthed awe tears in my eyes.
And so here on day five, I think now how lucky, how flimsy, this whole contraption. Meat suit filled and fed by weather patterns of dis-ease and miracles.