The other day I had an experience while having coffee with the squirrels. Well, sitting on the back porch, but same difference.
I was watching all of the animals, and listening to the birds, and feeling the gentle breeze. A chickadee, my favourite, was chirping in the midst. One might think this was a normal backyard any other day, but at that moment, it was like a sanctuary. There was so much out there: I counted at least ten species of animal within twenty minutes. And as everything just went along with its life, I was suddenly very overwhelmed with the knowledge that life always goes on. It’s humbling and frightening and comforting all at once.
When I opened the door to go outside, everything stopped to look at me. As I sat down quietly and started drinking my coffee, everything went back to its business of finding dinner and fluttering about. Their acceptance reminded me that I was also part of it all—I belonged there.
I glanced over at my house and the walls that separated my quarters from their quarters. Theirs, a tree; mine, a room and bed made from the tree. There were walls to “separate” me from the outside air and ground, protect me from danger and the harsher elements just like any other creature, but all that really separated me from those squirrels and birds and butterflies were four inches of material that the earth gave me in the first place. The stars are always above us even if all we see is a ceiling. We are part of everything. And the earth made room for me to exist, right here.
Then a few nights earlier, I did that thing where you open your closet to get something, and end up distracted by other things you find. Not quite Narnia, but I snatched the sweaters and shoes I’d bought earlier this year, for Autumn. Put on a hat. All on top of the dress I wore that day. Looking into my full-length mirror, witnessing how perfectly it all went together, I had a “moment.”
I felt so blessed to be able to experience this, all of this. Feeling “okay” with life, even if it is scary; wearing clothes that represent me, that I picked out instead of the clothes others had passed down to me; sharing my days with the love of my life, and being with them during both our favourite time of year; being close to my family; and miraculously having funds to take care of everything I need AND want…
It was as if the clothes were symbolic of the pieces of my life I’d chosen and changed over this year, hoping they would come together in the future, and the way they “fit,” a reminder of how my life had worked out. All my preparation–in wardrobe choices and life choices–had proved to be more perfect than I could have ever imagined. I had a distinct sense of “I made it.” My legs give out more and more lately, but I honestly didn’t even know if I’d still be walking at all, much less this well, after a year of no treatment, considering how quickly things progressed the previous times treatment failed… I just didn’t think any of this would be possible. How wrong I was. How wrong I was.
Today marks the first anniversary of my relapse in 2012, and the day I stopped treatment. (You know, regardless of calendar dates, Autumn has always felt like the beginning of the year, to me…)
Things AREN’T going how I thought they would. I did NOT experience remission from M.E. after ten years of living with it, like many do; I did NOT cure the bartonellosis; my pain continues to expand; I still have mycoplasmosis and I am NOT beating Lyme disease. I will NOT be going into any other treatment programs with the motive of being 100% cured of any disease. But I look at who I am now, and the people in my life, and the way I experience life, and I wonder if things could possibly be any better for someone in my situation… I really don’t think they could.
♥ a rainbow at night