I’ve been coming back to this thought lately.
As I continue to learn what it means to live with chronic illness, I am learning this particular dance of saying yes and no, of allowing myself be open to healing, but only in small pieces at a time. The whole puzzle is too much to handle at once.
This summer as I moved twice and dealt with mold exposure, packing and unpacking received a big yes.
Writing and time with friends was minimal for awhile. I had to be really careful of which buildings I went into.
I’ve increased my hours at work, and every week I check in with myself to see how I’m feeling.
Adding more work means I work later, and I do not go to many things at night.
I’ve craved solitude and reading time because of how crazy this summer was. I’m devouring books, and yet probably soon, I will not want to read for awhile.
Grieving and not being able to write for a few months, means that now, paradoxically, I have more things to say.
Although I still love watching college football, I slipped out last weekend to attend a book signing.
I still struggle with insomnia some nights, and I scrap my plans for the day and let myself take a nap.
The complexity and multi-layered-ness (I think I just made this word up!) of my life can be traced back to my yes and my no.
It can be traced back to my willingness to be observant, to let the pace of my life match the seasons.
As fall hits and moves us closer to winter, I feel the desire to “hibernate” more. I want to read, to have slow mornings, to wrap myself in a blanket and drink some tea. I would rather stay home than go out. I want to be still and watch.
I want to feel the extent of my fatigue and let my body make my next decision rather than run myself ragged.
(This statement itself is a decade of growth in stages!)
I’m healing in stages. Not how I planned, or how I wanted, but I’m healing. It always comes in stages.