Is it possible to have a day when nothing happens?
I wrote here about the oddly blank days I\’ve been having lately, when every sensation is muffled and cushioned by the pain medications I\’m taking. And it\’s not just the sensations coming from outside me that are dulled, but also the ones that come from inside me, and are the prickliest.
For example, the laundry room is bursting with unwashed sheets and towels; the Christmas tree is begging to be taken down; and the dogs are eating straight kibble because I\’ve run out of the home-cooked stuff. Normally, just one of these items on my list would either drive me into action or drown me in guilt. But today I have done nothing but sit snuggled in afghans and stare out the window at the falling snow, napping, reading Trollope, then napping some more. I have not fed the birds. I have not taken the dogs for a romp. I am, in fact, still in my pajamas.
Outside, the snow keeps falling. It has been snowing for days. The driveway, plowed this morning, has disappeared again, and I can barely see the outlines of the vegetable garden. The lavender bushes are completely covered up, which is good, because the snow will protect them from the severe cold to come. Inside–inside me, that is–a kind of snow seems also to be endlessly falling, dulling edges, covering up the prickly twigs of guilt that normally spur me into action.
Snow outside of me, snow inside of me, I have sat by the window and, for an entire day, nothing has happened.
Except that Bisou threw up on my afghan.