The first day of summer comes on dreary and grey in the English midlands, much to match my mood as of late. What's it like where you are? I'm thinking of solstices past in Seattle's Fremont district, watching the joyous parade over a pint of Hoegaarden from a cozy beer garden and marveling with love for my community. Of Alaskan all nighters where it never really gets dark, but maybe a bit dim where calling in the summer from the dizzying heights of railroad bridges over Denali's great cravasses or scooping up the first of the summer's kittiwake chicks on Middleton Island seem so remote and removed from my life now. Of dipping my toes in the Atlantic for the first time on Mount Desert Island in Maine, the summer I discovered hidden swimming holes, the pure delight of licking my fingertips after a dinner on the pier at the lobster pound and the heavy heart of a love affair that falls apart before your eyes.
I'm feeling centered and settled and more engaged with who I am now than at any other point in the crooked path leading me up to where I stand. I admit, however, that I'm finding illness disheartening and this week I've been feeling more and more discouraged. I woke in the night from nightmares of being disemboweled, to find that I am in fact being scooped out by some unknown and creeping pain. I feel rotten. My tummy is in knots and there are moments in which I feel I'm being torn apart and it drops me to my knees. When that eases up there's the lingering and somewhat more sinister burning fist of pain punching at the base of my ribs, like a stitch in my side from running or swimming too hard. It's always there, I can disguise it with painkillers or distract it with exercise, but it remains, lurking, just under the surface. The doctors tell me there are only more invasive tests to be done, the ever pragmatic and optimistic GI specialist I see once a week regards the new medication regime as something to look forward to instead.
If you've been wondering why I've been so quiet on the blog of late, this is your explanation. Though, in theory, I've had more time than usual, what with the being off work and all, but I'm finding it difficult to think positively and I didn't want to drag you down with me. I've been vaguely productive, what with nearly finishing the binding off of my first ever quilt, the transporting of my veg garden and planting out of the greenhouse into the garden of the house next door to which we'll be moving in four weeks time, of packing and cleaning for said move, and the tinkering with this and flirting with the idea of starting a home business and the posting of flyers around town and neighboring villages. None of which seemed particularly interesting enough to post on this here blog.The idea of a blog as a sort of journal teases me. I set this blog up with the idea that it would be a nice way for me to keep my friends and family back home up to date with what I've been up to, a register of the things created before they were inevitably given away or eaten up, or else a curiosity to anyone who fancies moving abroad and wants to know a little more about life on this side of the pond. The blog as a diary or confessional is something I really wanted to avoid, my neighbor insists that the minute my blog becomes too personal she wouldn't want to read it anymore. I think she's on to something. And so, with the onset of summer, the turning of a new leaf, this post will be a one-off and I'll try not to moan too much about my tummy from here on out.
