My husband was the one who brought it home: the sneezing and the sniffling, the watery eyes and the chills, all served with a dash of pounding headache and general fatigue. Granted, it might have gone away quicker if I could have kept myself out of the garden and on the sofa, but I couldn't. Seedlings beckoned, mingled with sunshine and a fierce desire to plant my peas. So, on the sofa I most emphatically was not-- at least, not until I found myself too sick to move from it at all. Then, as if to punish me for ignoring it for so long, the blasted bug held me in it's clutches for days never fully relinquishing it's hold until one day, my friend insisted I join her for a day out in the mountains, reasoning that the fresh air would do me good.
And it did.
We sat on blankets in this field, chatting as we ate apples and drank cool water, feeling the sun seep into our skin, and the longer we sat the calmer and healthier I felt, as if the sun itself was somehow wrapping me up in a nice warm bath. It was a beautiful day, warm but still too early for all of the mosquitoes and sweat bees, yet young and innocent enough for the field across from us to fill up with delicate little deer who barely seemed to notice us.
I came home that evening feeling relaxed to my the very marrow of my bones, light and utterly free, the way you sometimes do after you spend a whole day in the pool or the ocean, as if your whole being is somehow suspended in some invisible current. I came home hungry for food, for books, for my knitting, for this space, for movement and productivity. I came home with a soul full of blue sky and pale yellow light, of fresh green and sweet smelling fields.