My granddaughter spent a fun weekend at the farm, and left me a gift when she went back to New York: I got sick, as she was just before she same. I am in the second day of being sick, and whatever is inside of me has blossomed, and even though I should know how to get sick by now, I do not, and I am sorry to say that I am not good at it.

Being sick makes me depressed, brings out old demons, I fight with myself, and I lose. I have headaches, a hacking cough, an aching body, runny eyes. I can’t really sleep or read.

I’m supposed to get vigilant when I’m sick – I have diabetes and have had open heart surgery – but I reject that kind of thinking. Getting sick is a letting go, you either can do it or you cannot do it.

I get into bed, and then get out of bed. I try to read but can’t. I want to take a walk or move around, but it’s not a good idea. I need to rest, but I don’t know how to  rest, if makes me uncomfortable, I feel worthless, idle, lazy. There is so much do so, so much life around me, so many words to write, photographs to take, dogs to walk, woods to visit.

I got up to write on the blog, I tried to work on my book, but could not.

The restless Fate watches me closely, she acts as if she understands. The faithful Red knows when I am sick, he will not leave my side. Maria worries about me, which makes me anxious and uncomfortable, I cannot bear to be pitied or worried about.

She goes into her studio to do her work, checking in on me. We don’t like each other to be sick.

I want her to make me get into bed, I don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t want to get into bed. I am impossible, even to myself.  I want to let go, but I am only recently learning how to let go. The sky has turned dark, another storm is coming, the wind is growing harsh and threatening.

So, another round at letting go, heading upstairs to close my eyes and perhaps listen to music and try to sleep. I’m in the mood for Leonard Cohen.

I’m no good at being sick, the angels can’t stand to be around me and fly up into the sky.