I had an experience while having coffee with the squirrels the other day. Well, sitting on the back porch, but same difference.
I was watching all of the animals, listening to the birds, and feeling the gentle breeze. A chickadee–my favourite–was chirping in the midst. Any other day this would’ve been a normal backyard, but at that moment, it was 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 step outside, everything had paused to look at me. I sat down quietly and started sipping 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 provided 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.
A few nights earlier, I did that thing where you open your closet to get something and end up distracted by everything else you find. I snatched the sweaters and shoes I bought earlier in the year, for Autumn. Put on a hat. All layered on top of the dress I wore that day. Looking into my full-length mirror, witnessing how perfectly it all went together, I had another “moment.”
I was overcome by how blessed I felt to be experiencing all of this; all of this. Feeling okay with life, even if it is scary; sharing my days with the love of my life; being together during our favourite season; being close to my remaining family; miraculously having funds to take care of everything I need AND want; and being able to wear clothes that represented me, that I picked out instead of clothes discarded from others’ closets.
It happened in a flash of thought, but looking at my reflection, it was as if the clothes were symbolic of all the pieces of my life I’d changed and chosen over this year, hoping they’d eventually, somehow come together in the future; and the perfect way the scattered items “fit,” a reminder of how my life has 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 do give out more and more lately, but considering how quickly things progressed the previous times treatment failed, I honestly didn’t know if I’d even be walking at all, much less this well, after a year. I didn’t think any of this would have been 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. 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 instead of resolve. I still have mycoplasmosis and I’m not “beating Lyme disease” and I won’t 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 who I am still becoming, and the people in my life, and the way I experience life, and I wonder if things could possible be any better for someone in this situation. I really don’t think they could.
♥ a rainbow at night