I’m wearing my pale pink knitted hat with the flower, my fringed shawl, my pale pink peasant skirt and fuzzy socks, under a quilt next to the fire sipping cinnamon tea at 1pm on account of the fact that I cannot move I am in such pain, a childhood spinal issue for which I will be fine. My doctor today ordered an MRI and offered me three drugs for the pain as well as a drug for the MRI itself.
I essentially told her that if I can’t handle 30 minutes of an MRI tube unmedicated, how could I handle anything else in life, and in case you’re wondering, just because I wear pale pink in the winter doesn’t mean I’m a druggie wimp, so I left the hospital without a single pill, and here I rest in the lovely, unexpected, rarely indulged in retreat near the fire in this small precious cottage I call home.
And the thing is, I’m happy, so happy in fact that when Hugh called to check on me, to tell me to take care of myself, I told him that I shall because I just might live to be 90, and the thought of that, the thought of living long enough to sip the glory of 49 more autumns, sent a radiance of joy through my body, and I understood in that moment why I didn’t need those pills, nor this fire nor even this pleasant tea, nor anything but the peace and knowing of who I am that adorns my soul.
I am grateful for this life, for the shadows of pain that so deepens the night, for the grace of each day that gives rise to the light. May you also, whomever you are, sip the delight of many a season hence, and may you bask in a flame of joy today, no matter your circumstance.