“I think it’s all done now.”
“What’s done, honey?”
“Well, you know how you were supposed to rest? Because of your cough? You’ve been resting a lot, and I think it’s all done now.”
That was Sunday afternoon, a few hours into my rest. It’s not done. (And Youngest is not feeling any more patient today.)
In exchange for being sent home instead of being admitted to the hospital for pneumonia, I’ve promised to be very, very good and rest. And, honestly, my lungs are helping me back that promise up.
Sleep is another story, due to some of my medications. Walking, laughing, talking all wear me out. Internally I am running marathons.
But I am resting. Couch-or-bed, mostly. Oh joy.
The thing is, it is so not boring.
I finished some assigned reading (from Oldest):
I’ve also been (much more slowly, because it's rich and delectable and true) reading this and oh—loving it so much:
Doctor Who with Oldest.
A bracelet-making tutorial with Middle.
Coloring with Youngest.
I admit I’ve been dealing with deep discouragement. Getting sick is the least of it, although it’s a very large cherry on top. (And I love the cherry, by the way, fake as it is, especially if you will give it to me without the whipped cream. But you know what I mean, right?)
Here is something I know about creativity: to flourish, it often needs limits. Walls. Trouble, even, if you want to think of it that way.
Maybe beauty is the same way—the kind you want, not the kind you think you want.
Maybe it’s that way with all good things. Light in the darkness, water when you’re thirsty, warmth in the cold.
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