For over a week, I have had some kind of flu/virus that has taken the wind out of my sails, as the saying goes. The past few days have been the worse, with much coughing and little sleeping. I’ve spent quite a bit of time on the couch, and I’ve forced myself to do a few chores so that the house won’t look too bad when I am well again. But what an effort everything is. I don’t have the focus to post recipes on this blog—I have a couple in mind, and I’m just waiting for this darned flu to say adios—and I don’t have the focus to work on fiction. I can’t go for walks in the woods.
Because I can’t be my usual busy self, time itself seems to have slowed down. Yesterday, after taking a short catnap on the couch, I woke up and thought it was at least 6:30. Instead, it was only 5:00, with the whole long night ahead of me. As I didn’t get to sleep until 2:00 a.m., the night was very long indeed.
This enforced inactivity has made me realize how much I enjoy my busy life, a combination of cooking, writing, chores, family, reading, volunteering, meeting with friends, and, this time of year, taking walks in the wood. Couch and tea time are ever so much more enjoyable at the end of a busy day rather than as a continuum of a long, idle afternoon spent waiting to feel better.
So there it is. I enjoy being busy. I like being productive and useful. Having a list of projects adds pep to my life.
As there is plenty to do in this life, in this rural state, in this little town, I never have to wonder how to fill my hours. And as soon as this virus goes away, I’ll gratefully return to my busy routine, ordinary yet oh so absorbing.