On Monday night my throat started to ache.
“I hope it’s just dry,” I said to John. “I don’t have time to be sick.”
By 3 AM it was burning. I dug sticky cough drops from 2017 out of a drawer and struggled to sleep. The next day, admitting defeat, I skipped my morning walk in favor of rest. I tried not to work but fell prey to my laptop’s blue light all afternoon. John, Herbie, and I attempted our regular evening walk but I didn’t last long: one lap around the playground and straight back to the car. I was cold, I was tired. I collapsed into the couch while John made soup.
Tuesday night was worse. Fire in my throat, unforgiving. Tension in my neck, persistent. I woke up in a horrible mood.
“You’ve been prickly today,” John said later that evening. But he made my honey, lemon, and ginger tonic, the only thing that helped, on repeat.
Recently I visited my lifelong best friend who is expecting a child. We’re all protective of the baby, so I traveled with over-the-counter Covid tests and have some left over. I pulled one out of the closet, washed my hands, and followed directions very carefully.
Negative.
After what feels like eons of staying home and wearing masks, and by the grace of god during a worldwide pandemic, I haven’t been sick in nearly three years; I’d almost forgotten what it’s like. You feel helpless and annoyed, frustrated by your body’s inability to ward off invasion. You think about all you’d hoped to do.
Another bestie called on Wednesday, when I didn’t even have the energy to get out of bed.
“What does it take for a lady to get a sick day?” I asked her. “It feels impossible, especially as a freelancer.” She agreed. “It’s so hard to do nothing.”
Life has been delightfully full recently with our trip west, a couple of weddings, and visits with friends. I shouldn’t be surprised my body said enough after two months on the road, in the way entire theater departments succumb to illness after a production’s curtain call, the way college seniors get sick the second finals are over. We push forward and adrenaline carries us, and we keep going till we can’t anymore.
Here in the Northern Hemisphere we have entered the darker half of the year, the time when nature begins to shed excessive life so it can go to sleep. This period of hibernation creates reserves of energy for future seasons of growth, and symbolically, it represents a time of slowing down and going within, listening to the inner whispering of our dreams. In the natural world, rest is not some moral failure; it is necessary and good, part of a fundamental order that cannot be denied.
Yet we who are as much part of that system as any other living thing, who evolved to be at peace in the natural world, who like to think we’ve transcended it and its restrictions, as if such a thing were possible, force ourselves towards a pace that leaves little time for quiet or rest. Our seasons of production mirror nature’s, but they never stop. Taking time to recover would mean falling behind. Correcting our country’s reprehensible stance on National Paid Maternity Leave would mean valuing life over profit. This pace is driven by money—not by the sun or the tilting of Earth—by a human construct and the systems that wield it.
Although we know the systems and structures that dictate our daily routines are false gods of accelerated capitalism, overly inflated by desire and greed, by the necessity of existing, or if we’re lucky thriving, within the framework we inherited, we assume the “productive” among us are superior creatures, stronger and more capable. Those who dare to slow down carry the pallor of going against the grain. But when I stopped long enough this week for my body to recover, one thing was clear.
The leaves are falling, the animals preparing. Their pace is slowing as we tip towards winter. It’s perfectly fine if mine does, too.
Between you and me—
It’s the spookiest time of year and I couldn’t be happier! John and I have a tradition of making elaborate feasts of our ancestor’s foods and an altar to honor those who came before us, both in our families and the artistic lineages we aspire towards, for Halloween and All Souls’ Day. I very much look forward to it. The veil is thin, as they say, which brings all kinds of potential for ceremony and introspection.
How did I miss that Dame Judi Dench did a documentary on trees in 2017? She is living my dream. The expression on her face when she hears the tree making a sound tells me we are kindred.
When I was unwell this week, and feeling pessimistic, I found myself thinking, There’s no way WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is going to happen. Great. Then I wondered what I would say to a friend in the same predicament. Without hesitation I thought, Rest! Rest! I would tell her to rest and forget about work. Which I did, to some degree. But I wanted to fulfill my promise to show up in this space, so writing about said cold seemed an acceptable compromise.
I didn’t want to risk further positioning pregnancy next to illness in this essay, because it deserves a separate category, but as you’re likely aware, these cultural issues with rest and recovery are playing out on the national stage in another conversation about motherhood and new life. The United States is one of only eight countries in the world that doesn’t offer National Paid Maternity Leave. In other words, a country that’s been preaching “family values” for decades can’t find a way to actually live them. Between that and blatant denial of evidence that says climate destruction is already happening, I am feeling very give me a break.
Here’s a special song for the weekend, a classic book about friendship, and an interview with Mary Ruefle that kept me going all week.
To our immune systems, our health, and our rest. Take care out there.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider supporting it by becoming a sponsor. You can also click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!