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.