Dog in my soup

The retreat grounds

Unbelievably, I started feeling a tickle in the back of my throat On The Way Home from my retreat. It wasn’t enough that my windshield wipers revolted and the roads were horrendous and I was all tense like someone who hadn’t driven in a week was cast out into a blizzard—oh, wait—and then I had only one windshield wiper and other drivers were nutso and all I wanted was to just get home to the family I hadn’t seen in a week. No, the tickle had to arrive as well. Portent of doom. Like the black dog who came in through the window and stood there with his front paw in my soup. And sure as shootin’, by the time dinner was cooking, I was sucking—too late—on a zinc lozenge. Which did nothing, because I was too late.

I hate being sick.

I’m pretty sure if I’d kept up on my oil pulling through the retreat, I’d have been fine. Does wonders for the daily clear-out of the mucous, and I haven’t been sick all winter. But no. I’d rather hoard my mucous. And there we have it.

I am sick.

I’ve had three giant cups of honey lemon tea today. I took a wee nap. I was almost feeling better.

And then I couldn’t sleep. Must have been that 20 minutes in the middle of the day that threw off the rhythms. So now I’m up and this hideous time of the night, blaming the windshield wipers for my misery.

Tomorrow there will be more snow. And I will sit in front of the fire with my tea and moan.

This is my plan. And deviance from the plan featuring magical cures for the common cold is welcome.

The retreat puppy… NOT the portent of doom. That one’s different. 

Also, I miss Nabby.

Maybe this is all just Nabby withdrawal.


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