E's coughing again, and her nose seems to fill up as soon as she's done blowing it. Here's my theory why:
The forsythia's are blooming. The grass is greening up. The Weather Channel is warning of higher-than-usual pollen. Seasonal allergies could very well be to blame for this most recent setback.
Poor kid. She's off for spring break this week, which means we should be relaxing, chilling, doing all the things we'd hoped to do: a trip to see Bridge to Terabithea, a visit to Bath and Body Works to use old gift cards, planning and planting of flower and vegetable seeds for this year's garden, a walk to the library for a long overdue visit, a sleepover with friends. Unfortunately, at the rate the week's shaping up, we may very well spend the rest of it hunkering down and doing doctor visits. I'll be curious what we learn because E's already a walking cornucopia of allergy type meds.
Breathing deeply. Reminding myself that weeks like this one (when finding the uninterrupted time to write is damn near impossible, and writing anything meaningful if I do manage to find the time is even more unlikely) are a natural part of my process.
My yoga teacher J would probably have something reassuring to say about this place in which I find myself. Her advice would be wise, knowing, non-judgemental, just what I needed to hear.
"Don't worry about where you are or aren't," she's been known to say as we move from one pose to another. "Where you are is right for you. Honor where you are."
I want to believe this, need to believe this. Most days I do.
Today? Well, let's just say that after nearly a month of shepherding E from one illness to another with less than a week inbetween each bout, attending tonight's yoga class is crucial on so many different levels. For me. For my girls. For P.
And for my reluctant muse.