Feed a Cold; Starve a Fever
Today is day four of a nasty cold. Up until this visitation I had been happily writing a book on the Soul and feeling terrific about my discipline. I would pat myself on the back at the end of each day and smile with a warm sense of completion. Then, on a 108 degree day in Phoenix a cold got me. “How can this happen?” I am shouting aloud in my house. Then, the shouting stops as my throat begins to swell. I don’t know who is winning the race, running faster, my nose or eyes. My ears begin plugging up and my head is out of commission. The first day I love and embrace the whole thing. I give thanks to God for creating a bit of spaciousness for myself after writing about the value of it. I go to sleep clogged up and grateful. Day two, not so joyful. Despite application of multiple essential oils and cleansing routines, I tend to be getting worse. I take to reading, and no retention. I try to force myself to write and I can’t penetrate the fog. Day three, no end in sight. I purposely include a long walk in the now 112 degree heat trusting movement and the dry air. Today is day four, I remember I’m to feed a cold but I’m not hungry. So I grab all of my favorite writer’s books on writing and cradle them for awhile on the couch, feeding myself the energy of the written word. I finally surrender. I laugh to myself as not too long ago I chose to live in solitude and practice days of no-doing. Now that I’m invested in the accomplished and I’m being forced into no activity, I rebel. I am funny.