This morning I sliced three whisper-thin slivers from the frozen ginger root, dropped them into the bottom of my favorite mug and poured boiling water over them, watching as they bobbed to the surface like tiny life preservers. I filled a plastic measuring spoon with honey and dipped it in and out of the hot water, the thick amber coating thinning translucent with each plunge. I added a splash of lemon juice and then let the mixture steep before finally fishing out the sodden ginger slivers with a teaspoon and flicking them into the sink.
I have a cold, and even though “it’s only a cold,” this one happens to be of the apocalyptic variety. My neighbor swore by this ginger-honey-lemon tea remedy when I saw her late Monday afternoon. It was the first time I’d been outdoors in three days. When I spoke, my voice croaked with laryngitis, and my throat burned raw, like I’d swallowed a fistful of broken glass. I’ve been dutifully slicing and steeping ever since. I’m not sure it’s working, but at least there is something comforting in the routine – pungent scent of ginger, sharp lemon quieted with sweet honey, hands wrapped around the warm mug.
I’ve been yearning for silence and stillness lately. Ever since I turned the Luther book in to my editor (yes, I did!), I’ve felt restless. An unhealthy energy seems to hum just below the surface, under my skin. I feel anxious, edgy. When I found myself scrolling through the website for the Benedictine monastery a few hours up the road, I thought I’d happened upon a solution: a weekend of contemplative silence. Time to settle, to sort through some questions that have been pinging around my head, to quiet the thrumming.
And then I got sick.
Initially I was angry. The day I woke sneezing, throat screaming, the temperature neared 70 degrees here in Nebraska. The chickadees, clearly confused, abandoned their winter staccato and trilled their two-note summer salute. Bedroom sheers wafted in the breeze of open windows. Neighbors grilled burgers and hot dogs on their back patios, kids flung open garage doors and pumped air into bicycle tires…and I was stuck in bed.
I don’t readily take to my bed. I tend to power through most illnesses, bent on ticking items off my to-do list, refusing to succumb to mere bodily complaint. But this cold sat me down and told me straight up who was boss, and I had no choice but to listen.
The funny thing was, once I surrendered to it, I realized my illness was actually an unexpected gift. It offered me the quiet, contemplative retreat I’d been yearning for, and I didn’t even have to leave my own home to find it. I spent the day under my nana’s hand-crocheted afghan, the March issue of Better Homes and Gardens on my lap. When I tired of that, I dozed. I wrote in my journal and listened to the chickadees through the open window. I read the Midday Office from The Divine Hours. I blew my nose and sipped water and dozed some more.
The boys were outside, enjoying the beautiful day I was missing. The house was still. I lay in bed and listened to the clock tick and the questions inside my own head, and I stayed that way for hours. It was a retreat, albeit a sniffly one, and I was grateful.
So I know I already wrote about Christie Purifoy’s beautiful book Roots & Sky, but a couple of days ago the UPS truck pulled up to the curb and the man in the brown shirt and brown pants dropped an envelope into my front door. Inside were three copies of Roots & Sky, and I am delighted to be able to give away TWO of those copies on the blog today (the other I’m sending to a loved one back in Massachusetts). Resting in the quiet of my home all day on Saturday and Sunday reminded me so much of Christie’s story, which centers around the passing of time and seasons, so it seems fitting to offer her book with this blog post today. {Email subscribers: visit the blog by clicking here to enter the giveaway}
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