Yes, after a full day home sick today, I should be asleep. But maybe you’ll understand in a minute why I’m up writing instead, clicking away on the teeny phone screen.
I can’t be certain yet til the doctor’s on Monday, but I assume I have a classic case of strep. Fire breathing, gravel burping throat dragons, and a neck that has swelled all day like an inflatable guest mattress. And although I am not a regular disciple, I used Pinterest tonight to turn myself into a human science experiment. My favorite? 4 garlic cloves minced–I put 6 because I have never once in my life thought, “Enough garlic!”–4 tablespoons of honey, and a teaspoon of cayenne pepper. As disgusting things go, it wasn’t bad. It may have even been better had my honey not been old and crusty. I made a ridiculous mess scooping out the needed amount, and then floated the bottle in the tub with me where it politely avoided the narcissus oil I added to drug me to pain free sleep. I hate when I find old things like that in the cupboard; it reminds me of the lives I wanted to jimmy my way into by owning the merchandise.
Anyways, as I floated there meditating on the honey, I realized that it has been years since a cold has taken up residence in my lungs. As a child, I had operatic bronchitis, and so for years any time I was sick it went right back there to set up shop-angry, harking, barking, lung meat rattling coughs. Coughs that laughed in the face of codeine and wouldn’t even return the calls of homeopathics. When I found out maybe 5 years ago that Chinese medicine believes that grief is stored in the lungs, a great cosmic click went off in my head…but then I pretty much left the idea alone. 5 years later, I have cried more than I have in my whole life, and recently, I am making conscious attempts to welcome death and the wisdom of endings (believe me, not morbid, but you’d have to read Women Who Run With the Wolves to understand why it’s not morbid). And now, whatever virus some precious middle school bastard has passed to me, is no longer interested in the lungs.
“So where is your sickness now Chelsea?”
The throat. The last major and minor sicknesses I can remember had a throat component, or were all throat while the rest of me was weirdly fine. The place my voice comes feels challenged these last few years, conflicted, not free to let things in or out with ease. Thank you for telling me body. Part of it I understand, and now the part I don’t understand can receive a mixture of a) love and b) we can not stay here, we will not stay here when there is so much more to see, firm attention. I know it is not a new thought, but it has rumpused my fevery brain tonight. I know it sounds like a hippy dippy lala thought, but I have learned enough in the last year to know I can’t ignore my body anymore; simply treat it as a meat container to carry my sparkling intellect and childlike heart 🙂 My body is my partner, and it’s trying to tell me something. It’s heartening really, to think that someone who writes and thinks as much as I do still has voice to find, ALLOW, and develop.
And that’s why I’m still up tonight. So, dear ones, where is your sickness? Does it have anything to say?