After nearly a year of life, the time has come for this blog to work a little harder. I’ve posted 44 pieces of flash fiction over the last several months, and it’s time for ‘Onto the page’ to branch out. Ideas are buzzing around in my head, and as I’ve already confessed, I’m too much inclined to leave them there (See my ‘About’ page). A little self-discipline is required. I’d like to share my bits of this and that, and to build a stronger identity for this blog. If there are readers out there who find something here of interest, I’d love to know.
So here’s today’s offering.
How it looks from down here.
Today is my eleventh day of the flu. Eleven days of having no energy, and no way to end the tedium. I know I need to rest, stay warm and try to breathe. Try not to think about plans that have had to be postponed and good things waiting to be enjoyed.
Today arrived with a bright sunny sky that is charging my flagging spirits, and I’m grateful. I’m loving the skyline view from my armchair – gumtree tops dark against the open blue. How I come alive to sunshine.
It’s early winter. Winter does its own thing, regardless of what I want. Winter insists on returning year after year, and some say we need the change of seasons; it’s a natural cyclic thing. We’d go crazy in endless summer, the theory goes. I’m not convinced.
Here in this temperate part of the world, there really is nothing to complain about. I know this. It’s all about acceptance: dress appropriately, plan appropriate activities, use the shorter days for some productive indoor time, indulge in some ‘comfort food’. Who invented that phrase anyway?
I know all that. I’ve been around for some time now, and these truths haven’t escaped my attention. I also know that as soon as the autumn days start to shrink, so does my capacity to smile and look ahead. And as midwinter passes and the days start to expand again, I find increasing lightness in my step, my back straightens, enthusiasm and vigour return.
Today, six days into winter and eleven days into influenza, perhaps my outlook isn’t to be trusted. From down here at the bottom of the annual cycle, it’s best just to keep plodding ahead and try not to think too much about whether or not one’s life and circumstances are okay. They’re bound to come out of the analysis looking a bit shabby.
The sun’s setting, mid-afternoon. About now, on a summer Saturday, I’d be thinking about launching my kayak and paddling around on the lake for an hour. I can see the lake from here; it’s calm and sparkling and inviting. But that kind of thinking’s no help at all.
The gum tree tops are darkening against the fading blue; there’s a delicate pinkness creeping up from the horizon. It’s a long weekend and the forecast is for more sunny days. Surely no flu known to man can last much longer than eleven days, and while I recover I can sit in my armchair and read, write or lose myself in knitting projects – guilt free. Counting my blessings – that’s what I’m doing.
A winter haiku
Curled on his blanket,
our old dog absorbs sunshine’s