I feel just fine, but I called in sick this morning. Once a year or so, I take a mental health day. It’s 11 degrees below zero, so I won’t be able to work in the garden. I work in a small town and could be spotted, so I won’t be able to go to the gym. Hubby went to work. There’s no one here but me and the cats.
It’s the best kind of day, with nothing that needs to be done and nowhere for me to go and no one for me to talk to. It’s not even 8:00 AM and already I’m having the time of my life. I know I’ll still die someday, but I feel like I have cheated death just a smidgen today. I won’t ever wish that I would have been at work today.
In the spirit of a quiet and personal rebellion against the world today, I’m posting an old poem by Sara Teasdale (a most underrated American poet) that sort of reminds me of how I feel today. It’s really not a sad poem. I love the poet’s attitude of futilely but defiantly taking a stand against powers that she knows she can’t control:
Since there is no escape, since at the end
My body will be utterly destroyed,
This hand I love as I have loved a friend,
This body I tended, wept with and enjoyed;
Since there is no escape even for me
Who love life with a love too sharp to bear:
The scent of orchards in the rain, the sea
And hours alone too still and sure for prayer—
Since darkness waits for me, then all the more
Let me go down as waves sweep to the shore
In pride, and let me sing with my last breath;
In these few hours of light I lift my head;
Life is my lover—I shall leave the dead
If there is any way to baffle death.