My sunflowers in pellets are reaching dome-ward and my pumpkin starts are bursting larger hourly, but I’ve not yet put the seeds in the garden. Luckily, I’ve had my late-garden guilt assuaged by the fact I’m told by all the old locals, that this area starts late and no one should seed before June.
I’m very glad that this seems true, and if I had planted two weeks ago when I should I should have, it would all be lost. We’ve had an unseasonable stint of rain that is hammering early lettuce into the ground and rotting hapless seeds. It has rained every day at least part of every day for over a week, and it seems like two.
This steady overcast drizzle to downpour has coincided with a bout of illness for me. At first I thought food poisoning, but then as a few days turned into a week I sought Western medicine. The verdict: a mild case of giardia, stay hydrated and your body will beat it.
Now it’s been over two weeks, and I’m hovering in a state of not being sick, per se, but not being well. My body has given up on digesting food, it seems, and I have no appetite. I eat about one meal per day. Not because I’m hungry – I’m really not, ever – but because I think I must get something in me. When I eat, I go into shutdown. I’m tired all the time and have no motivation. I function as best I can, and I don’t look or feel sick except that falling asleep is constantly possible and appealing, and I don’t have sustained strength. It would be fascinating if I had the energy to be fascinated, the way one primary function of the body in disarray is affecting my emotions. I wish I had the energy to dig out Heal Your Life and look at the correspondences.
So I’m operating on the theory that everything will get done when it gets done. That’s all I can do anyways. Currently I can do an ok day’s work for every two that are sedentary and shockingly unproductive. I glide around past ambitious and exciting projects galore, but can’t summon the impetus to actually begin. The Scotch broom wants destroying, many areas need weeding and tidying, there’s rockwork and barnwork and mowing, and planting, and not even a waiting flat of deliciously young and enthusiastic veggie starts are inspiring enough to lift a shovel. Preparing food I’ve no desire for is a trip. I feel like I’m in a dreamworld of a kind, this state of lethargy is so unusual for me. A Fallow State, like Margaret Atwood describes in Year of the Flood. Some would say it’s appropriate, and high time. I could stand to do this for a couple years considering the pace I’ve been on for the last eight, but my brain berates me for not moving, for not getting one day after another of real work done, for not doing something useful while I sit, if I must sit. However, work of the mind takes energy too, and all I seem able to do is read, and sleep.
So I sit, and I doze off, and I read.