Letter from the Vineyard 25 January 2020 “All we need is love…”

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In the background, Mozart plays; his music allegedly good for helping the brain work and God knows I need help making my brain work right now.  A week ago, I woke up with what felt like a small head cold.  Home that night, it seemed to have made little progress.

Thursday morning, I defied gravity, got up, sat down and went uh oh!  The small head cold had become something fierce during the night – not quite flu and certainly much more than a cold. And there began what has been a nine-day odyssey through an illness defying definition, leaving me swirling in its misery.

Boxes of tissue have disappeared, my heating pad was clung to, a life preserver in the sea of coughs.  I questioned my sanity, my presence on the island, my life, friendships, everything swirled around me in the wicked whirlwind of not feeling at all well, when the world seems much darker and Mephistopheles finds his way to your shoulder, whispering recriminations into your ear over things you’d long thought resolved.

Such is illness and mine was such a petty one compared to what others I know have gone through or are going through and that, in itself, spurred more recriminations and self-condemnations.

It was a gruesome Catholic week of recriminations and regret.

It seemed impossible to read or watch anything; I was incapable of absorbing content.  The same page would be read three times over and I still wouldn’t know what the characters were up to, which way the plot was turning, so I sat, staring out, listening to music, a cold and miserable chap.  Streaming programs resulted in the same:  what just happened?  I got tired of re-winding.

On Thursday, when I was not to be at the shop, I was to go to New York for a business luncheon and there was no way I could do it; my body was too weak, nor was my battered spirit much willing and cancelled, then became convinced the people I was to have lunched with probably hated me for letting them down.

After days of descending into this particular circle of Dante’s Inferno, I began to have a chat with myself, reminding myself of all the good things in my world, forcing myself to whisper to the Mephistopheles on my shoulder to get behind me. Incessantly, as he did not want to yield his spot upon that shoulder.

It has been a humbling week, illuminating.

With my frailties and insecurities in full display, if only to myself [I hope], I have had to carefully pull myself back together again, to remind myself, somewhat forcibly, to be grateful.

My life has been a grand experience; it is only right I treasure, clasp that specific reality to my heart and not wander into the land of different roads I might have taken.  I took the roads I took; my adventures have been what they have been; they have been great adventures, my mistakes, god knows how many there have been, have been my mistakes and in owning them comes forgiveness, which is what I needed in order to forgive myself my trespasses.

Forgive me for this meandering.  I needed to find words for this week, which tripped me up, spiraled me down and resulted in my winging my way back toward the clouds, though with only great effort and the deep realization of the complexity of the human experience.

So, here I am, anchored on the Vineyard, back in the store, chatting about books to interested people, once again grateful for the simplicity and wonder of this moment.

As for what is happening in the rest of the world, and, in particular, our political milieu, it seems only right tonight begins the “Year of the Rat.”

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