Well, folks, you won’t get much that’s sparkly out of me today. I’m … was about to write “sick as a dog,” but where does that expression come from? Do dogs get really sick on a regular basis? I’m just sick. And it’s not a surprise, as I tend to get sick in August or December, months when I can afford the luxury. Believe me, I don’t plan or want this, but it happens.
So now there’s a flu-like cold sitting in my body, chest and nose – aching legs and eyes and head, made worse by insomnia. I couldn’t sleep for stuffiness, even my sleeping pills didn’t work, and after finally dropping off at dawn, I was awakened at 8 by two, count them, two jackhammers just around the corner, digging enthusiastically to Australia. They continued for hours.
But as Chris says, I’m not in Pakistan. When I get sick like this, I’m especially grateful for two things: one, that I’m not on the road but home, and two, that I’m not an actress in a show any more. There’s food in my fridge, and friends and family to call if help is needed; I rented a couple of movies. and right now am lying on the deck reading the most fantastic book “The Philosopher and the Wolf: Lessons from the Wild on Love, Death and Happiness,” by Mark Rowlands – about how his lupine companion, his brother wolf, taught him what it is to be human. I’m drinking herbal tea but will soon have a tiny glass of wine, though I shouldn’t. Nothing is expected of me today, and not much tomorrow. This too shall pass.
The magnet Wayson gave me for my birthday is on the fridge right by the door; I see it so often, it has burned its way into my consciousness. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” it says. Even as I snuffle and moan, I know it’s true: I’m alive, Wayson and other beloveds are alive, the sun shines, the birds sing, the world is full of books to read and peaches to eat. My mother called to express her concern and so did my son. I can think about recuperating and not about my hatred for Stephen Harper or the Mike Harris Library for a minute or two.
I’ll have that tiny glass now as I go back to reading. To my right, three new peach-coloured roses are blooming between the purple buddleia and the darker purple clematis, and the camelia Wayson gave me has produced one huge fat sweet white bloom. Could it get any better than this?
PS Just saw a bright yellow bird at my feeder – entered “yellow bird with black wings” into Google and found out that it’s a male American goldfinch. Imagine, such an exotic creature in my humble garden.
