Being ill during the work week is bad enough. Thinking I might be over it, and discovering just as the weekend begins that no, no I’m definitely not over it, sucks so much more. I slept most of yesterday away, after I got home from work. I slept quite late into the morning (for me), waking to find my Traveling Partner already up, already drinking coffee.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I got up. Stretched. Took symptom relieving medication (I woke “during the night” around the time for my usual meds, and took those then and went back to bed). Washed my face and enjoyed the feeling of cold water on hot skin. I readied myself for the day, such as it is. I expect to spend it mostly just taking care of myself here at home. I went into the kitchen to make coffee, greeting my beloved on my way past him.
…He grumbles about my presence; I’m sick and unpleasant to be around. I take my coffee into my studio…
I ache all over this morning. Maybe from the sickness itself, maybe from being in bed so much over the past… week. Fuck. It’s been a week. No wonder my Traveling Partner was so firm about wanting me to stay home and just take care of myself. This shit has lingered. I take a couple Tylenol and wash them down with my coffee, hoping it helps. Seems a healthier choice that reaching immediately for the big gun Rx pain relief. I remind myself to drink plenty of water.
I’m only half finished with this cup of coffee (which is excellent), and I’m already thinking about going back to bed. I sigh to myself. Definitely still sick. I am glad I ran errands Tuesday, although I was already ill then, and deluding myself that I was “mostly over it”. The errands got done, and I could not have done them on any day since. I breathe, inhaling deeply, filling my lungs. I exhale slowly. I pay attention to my spine, my shoulders, my jaw, observing each notable point of pain (places I know I “carry my stress”), and coax them to relax, each in turn. Another breath. Another exhalation. Another moment to relax. I may go back to bed soon, but I’m in the studio now. That puts a smile on my face that feels like it lights me up from within. I’m not up to much, but painting is not especially physically taxing, these days; I’m set up for the painter that I am now, not that much younger, more limber, painter I was in my 20s or 30s. (I recall with some amusement, painting a rather large piece in acrylic, and just not being able to find quite the right perspective from which to work, until I stood up, looming over it from above. I painted it standing over it, leaning down, legs wide for stability, blood rushing to my head, and managing both balance and control of my brush. I could not do that now.)
I look around the studio. There’s some tidying and set up to do before I can paint, because I took my paints to the coast last weekend. It seems so long ago now. I barely unpacked. S’ok. It’s something to do on a sick day at home that will keep me pleasantly occupied and feel just a bit like I’m doing something, instead of “wasting” the weekend taking care of myself. I sit with that for a few minutes. Why does self-care feel like “wasted” time, this morning? Why did it ever? Why does it now? Do I always experience self-care as a “waste of time”? I don’t think I do. Why now? Is it down to feeling resentful that I’m sick? These fragile mortal vessels are endlessly breaking down over some virus or microbe or injury – but the care needed to restore them to good working order isn’t wasted. It’s utterly necessary. There’s always so much to do in one mortal life. Being ill is what feels most like “wasted” time. I’m annoyed that I’m ill. I have other shit to do.
I move around a bit. Set up the easel. Unpack the newly arrived Pastelbord. Put the brushes in their holder (which my Traveling Partner made for me). Unfurl the cotton dishtowels I use to protect surfaces (and other art) from pastel dust. Open the paintbox that holds my precious pastels – so many colors! I sigh contentedly, and for a moment being sick is irrelevant and I’m filled with joy. Odd that a box of colors can create such a feeling of wonder and joy. I savor the feeling while it lasts. (Feelings, like moments, are fleeting, impermanent.) I chuckle at the disarray. I foolishly left my paintbox open as it appears in the picture, and one day it got knocked to the floor by mistake. Pastels went everywhere, breaking as they fell against edges. I didn’t really sort them by color when I picked them up and put them back into their neat slots. I didn’t have it in me at the time.
…I don’t know which is more visually pleasing and artistically inspiring, the mad chaos of colors, or the carefully sorted arrangement by hue. My brain enjoys them differently, I suppose. As it turned out, becoming more used to painting it pastels, it became progressively more clear that sorting pastels into neat categories, rows, trays, color gradations, are all just ways to fiddle with the colors when no painting is going on. It’s not particularly necessary, nor useful (this is an opinion, your results may vary).
I finish my coffee. I finish my writing. It’s clear I’m still unwell. I contemplate going back to bed. I think about painting. The medications have all done their thing…good for what it is, but it leaves me feeling sort of dumb and slowed down, too. I think I’ll give in to that, go back to bed, and begin again later.
