Posted on November 28, 2024 by Jenn Zatopek

As luck would have it, sickness slowed me down long enough to fall in love with the world again. 

I’d been spinning too fast since summer and when the sore throat arrived mid-November, I was almost relieved. Anxiety had been present for months and post-election news had worked its way through me, leaving me vulnerable for my partner’s bout with the flu. Watching him recuperate on the coach in calm repose, I couldn’t believe his composure. He let himself sleep with no fears about being inactive, lying fallow for days at a time. Why does it take illness for me to give myself permission to rest?

Days pass into oblivion and I do something rare: I sleep in bed until noon each day because I’m too exhausted to get up. I cancel some work and rest most days on the coach, because there is no other option; I’m too weak to do much else besides lay down. On day ten, I’m at the doctor’s office for foot pain and she says grimly “We’ll take care of your foot later. You have the flu.” Confirmed by a doctor, I drive home utterly spent–I’ve overdone it again by working too hard. Will I ever learn there are reasonable limits in living well? 

But while I’m out driving I notice how colorful the trees look along the highway, all dressed for fall, orangy-yellow and russet leaves shining brightly against the mid-morning blue sky. And suddenly I’m welling up with gratitude for being ill enough to delight in the trees who seem to call out to me from deep within, a sort of truth that’s always been there, a belonging that smiles in recognition at the stunning beauty of the world.

***

The Sunday walk by the river is absolutely lovely. My partner and I park our car by the trailhead amid piles of fallen leaves and hike up the steep little hill to the top of the levee overlooking the river below. There’s a warm breeze blowing and the sunlight feels like a warm embrace, refreshing after almost two weeks inside the house. We hold hands and enjoy the wind gusts whipping through us as we search for leaves and sticks for the nature crafts we’ll make this weekend.

Talk of politics and the sad tumult of recent events come up, but we let go of the fears of what might come and turn our attention back to the glory all around us. Under the friendly blue sky there’s the dusty gravel path that sits above the opaque river below where we hear shouts and cars honking and people cheering, carried to us by the winds. The autumnal trees on the opposite banks of the river gleam in the sun, and to the north I see brilliant dashes of foxy red and gold amid huge magnolia trees as we head back southward to the green space below the levee. 

Soon the dusty gravel road slopes downward to gray pavement and then we’ve entered another world bathed in astonishing lambent light. The towering oak trees here glow orange-golden and look as if they stretch on forever. Beneath their watchful gaze, I gather pretty fallen leaves and large acorns while my husband looks for long sooty gray sticks for the nature weavings.

We amble reverently along the path and admire the tall oaks and ash trees, the rolling green meadows, the small marsh near the top of the riverbank where you can see bluebirds nesting in spring. There’s owls calling in the nearby hackberry and oak trees as we find ourselves back where we started. I hear two of them calling hoot-hoot to each other, which thrills me to my bones. I don’t want to leave just yet and linger as the sun sets over the trees and the firmament is dashed with swirling clouds of lavender and golden white light shining through.

Walking slowly through the fields was our evening church, a sanctuary in time, but when I slow down every last thing I encounter becomes sacred, a portal for healing and gentle living, maybe if I allow it to be so. The whole world is medicine, said an old Zen master, and even now I’m nourished by this experience, the love that bursts through this whole beautiful world, as I slow down to savor it and feel its love in return.

Image: The green space near Trinity River