The last few weeks, I’ve been simultaneously navigating the effects of several health challenges. A nagging cough and cold, an ear infection, and the after-effects of oral surgery. It’s been a bit of a slog, and I knew enough to expect very little of myself because I was so completely drained by it.
I noticed one thing that didn’t waver. My sense of peace and well-being never felt threatened or compromised in any way. I haven’t been so sick in years, so it was a surprise to me when I witnessed how my thoughts and feelings weren’t even remotely affected by my physical condition. One had no influence over the other.
I don’t enjoy being sick any more than anyone does, but the last two weeks have been an entirely new experience for me. Even at the lowest points, I didn’t feel like something was “wrong,” I just understood that what was going on with my body was strictly physical.
So, while I was in a good deal of discomfort, there was no suffering going on. This allowed me to enjoy (not quite the right word, but close) my time doing very little. I didn’t feel guilty about the things that weren’t getting done, I didn’t get on myself for not being able to accomplish anything.
When I didn’t have the energy to do anything, I didn’t do anything.
I watched Lawrence of Arabia for the squillionth time in the middle of the day (something I never do) and enjoyed it. I took naps without an alarm, knowing the best thing I could do for myself was sleep. My life slowed down to a crawl, and I let it.
This gave me time to notice all manner of stuff that I usually “don’t have time” to notice. I take delight in noticing small things, but because I was moving much more slowly than usual, I saw more, which delighted me more.
After about a week and a half of this, one beautiful morning, I was dying to jump on my bike and take a gentle ride on the road I live on. Though it runs right along the Hudson River, the road had never in its 250+ year history been paved until this summer. The pavement is new, completely smooth, and has been used very little. Riding on it is something I love to do first thing in the morning.
As soon as I got on my bike, it was clear to me this wasn’t going to be the sort of ride I was used to. I was moving very slowly, which, at that moment, was the only way I could move. Rather than scrap the ride, or judge it as being not worth taking, I just went along with it and let it be what it was, and that made all the difference. I was going so slowly I was able to experience things I would have missed if I were riding faster.
I enjoyed that slow, slow ride as much as any ride I’ve ever taken.
I saw things I’m usually going too fast to see. All because I wasn’t trying to make that ride into something it wasn’t, something that under the circumstances it couldn’t be.
In the past, when I’ve recovered from an illness that has dragged me down physically, as I started to recover, I always had the sensation of “coming back to myself.” I noticed that sensation was absent this time, and for just a minute, I missed it. Then it occurred to me, I didn’t need to “come back to myself” because that deep, true self hadn’t gone anywhere; it was here all the time. My body was just having some physical difficulty.
As nice as it used to feel to “come back to myself,” it doesn’t compare to knowing I don’t need to come back. Just like you, and everyone who has ever lived, I’m already here. But what a difference it makes to recognize that!
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