The flu hit our house, and I was reminded over and over that sometimes the most urgent work you can attend to, is to rest. It’s hard to prioritize, and hard to put into practice. I was so eager to hit the ground running and leap into 2019. And instead, I had to sit very very still. For days on end.
This week, the poet Mary Oliver died, and my social feeds were sudden filling up with her poems, which struck me as a lovely legacy, although I hope, too, people will buy copies of her books to sit on their bedside tables, to reach for, when life offers up a Wordless Gobsmacking Take-Down kind of moment, and some soul balm is required, because Oliver’s poems are just the thing.
To wit: one that feels apt, in the wake of a week of enforced rest.