Am back, very happy to be back, and hope I haven’t lost everyone in the process of healing and taking care of myself… then again, if we didn’t take the time we need to take care of ourselves, we’d lose everyone, anyway… forever. We’d never be back, would we?
I’ve had some interesting adventures since my last blog. It seems to be months and months, since then. It’s amazing how much living can be crammed into, well, two months, give or take a week or two. And to think that every day, we fill up every single second and minute of 24 hours doing something! So while I was giving my body the time it needed in order to do its healing thing, which in itself is remarkable, because “it” just knows how to do it, without much help from me at all, I had lots of time to think. Mostly about what counts, at least in my little world.
Sleeping counts. Watching movies counts. Sitting on the couch and staring out the window into the darkening shadows of the trees in the forest, as they gradually disappear into the night counts, too. Oh, yes, and talking to oneself counts, as well.
As a matter of fact, talking to oneself can be quite therapeutic, although I admit a bit embarrassing when, in the middle of a conversation while home alone, I turn and am startled to find my husband has been home for, oh, five minutes, standing just around the corner, listening intently to both sides of my conversation with myself. But he’s sweet. He just smiles. And kisses me. And wanders upstairs to shower. I’ve never had the guts to ask what he thought of my conversations with myself, but on occasion, our furtive, sidelong glances toward one another have collided, and I’ve caught a lopsided, half-grin on his face. That makes me happy. I’ve amused him.
I do believe in all this time spent alone during the long days, with our rough collie, Matthew, that he and I have developed some sort of silent, but clear, communication thing. Lying on the floor with my head resting on his middle is healing. I’m sure of it. I listen to his heart, and his gentle breaths, and it’s funny how mine soon begin to match his. On one occasion, when I was in severe pain, lying face down on the couch, our 110-pound Matthew, who can no longer climb stairs because of arthritis in his limbs, lifted himself gently onto the couch, and carefully settled himself prone on top of me, his snout nestled into my neck. He was cradling me, giving me comfort. It made me cry, and I forgot about my pain for a while. Maybe he sensed the pain. But somehow he knew, his master needed comfort. Spending time with your dog definitely counts.
That thing about watching the grass grow? Well, you can. It does. And doing nothing but watching the grass grow has a way of making you notice that the winter pansies are in bloom, and how they have their very own, special shade of yellow, which will soon begin to blend with the white and purple crocuses, just now beginning to peak above the soil’s cover. Even the rose-bush, pruned down to nubs six months ago, is beginning to come alive again. Only the young maple in the front yard is struggling, because a rare ice storm hit last month, and split one side of that beautiful, graceful tree about halfway down. But it’s still trying. I can see that it’s trying. Somehow, when I scan the changes coming with spring, my eyes can’t help but drift from the grass and the sprouting bulbs and the wounded but determined tree out front. And just beyond the treetops, I can’t help but notice, with fascination, the sky. It’s never the same color, not really. And the clouds swirl into shapes, ever-changing, kind of like snowflakes, always original, and never a copy of another.
Kind of like each of us. Originals. An exact copy of you will never be. Which is what makes you special and valuable and powerful, with a unique role to play, even when you don’t know what that is. Even when you don’t think you’re really doing anything much at all, and aren’t quite clear what, exactly, it is that you’re in the process of creating. Like the grass and the flowers and the trees and the sky and the clouds: you know they’re coming, but you can never know just quite how they’ll turn out. So I’ve found that watching the grass grow definitely counts, too. It relaxes your life-breath, and it stills your soul.
Which leads me to what counts most of all: breathing. Yes. Just breathing. If you do nothing all day and night except breathe, you’ve done the most important thing of all. Breathe. And that most definitely, above all other things, counts.
©thoughtstomull.wordpress.com, Janet Mitchell, March 12, 2012