In sickness and health

​Tuesday was my first market day since the Bloomsburg market two Saturdays ago and I felt like an alien visiting a new planet.  When you find yourself cooped up inside with the remnants of a cold that doesn’t catch the hint about overstaying its welcome, you start to feel a bit delirious and strange, like a live wire in a dark room.  Particularly because the cold was not welcome in the first place.  Sickness never is really; although admittedly I prefer the sound of my voice when I’m congested, not unlike Phoebe in Friends.  But trust me, I wasn’t sitting on any windowsills with damp hair trying to get sick for the sake of vanity. I’ve experienced much worse, but because it had been so long since illness inhibited me, I was caught a bit off guard and the SOB took me down in the second round with its quick left hook, just when I thought I had it on the ropes.

When I am ill, I want nothing more than to be left alone to either sleep or entertain myself with mindlessness.  Netflix is both a blessing and a curse because it suggested I watch The Great British Baking Show Season 1.  And watch it I did – all 10, hour-long episodes within the span of I think two days.  I swear, if I was left to my own devices I would probably end up living out the rest of my time on this planet in a dark basement watching series after series of cooking shows, sci-fi dramas and hour long stand-up comedy specials until they discovered me weeks after death covered in quilts and feral cats.
 
I have never felt so disconnected from the farm.  And now that the men have been consumed by the rat race of potato harvest, sowing winter wheat and preparing for new steers, I am finding more and more solace in thinking about all of the little everyday details of the changes to come after my farmer and I exchange our vows.  Everyday when I talk to him, he reminds me of the countdown, “63 days, baby….57 days…”  We are like NASA’s next rocket awaiting our launch into infinity and beyond. 
​Soon my routine will be inseparably woven with that of the farm’s and our rhythms will synchronize.

The positive thing about being sick was it forced me to prioritize things and let the rest fall by the wayside.  Markets, holidays, home improvements, orders, the wedding – everything begins to swirl together after a while and trick you into believing it is all happening now.  But the market schedule has eased, certain details have been nailed down and the incredible colors of autumn have arrived, ushering in the promise of a new year and a fresh start.  Every so often, Mark will turn to me and say, “This will be the last time I do such and such before we are married.  The next time it comes around, you will be my wife.”  It is as romantic as it is true.  My final move; five states and finally I make that last one way ticket purchase home.

The dark side of being sick (whether you want to see it as negative or not is entirely up to interpretation) is that I feel less motivated to engage with the outside world.   My desire to nest, live privately and withdraw is very strong again.  As if the universe heard my internal monologue, my pre-ordered copy of Patti Smith’s M Train arrived the other day like a gift from a past life.  I had completely forgotten about it.  And as I steadily read through the somewhat melancholic but enchanting recount of her days with Fred Sonic Smith and also after his passing, I am reminded of my not too distant feelings of lethargy and strange lonely liberty after having moved here a few short years ago.  With those feelings only a ghost now, what does feel fresh to me is Patti Smith’s enduring and steadfast sense of freedom despite any despondency; a strength that I think she has had since the beginning.  She talks of a cowpoke in her dreams and I picture her as one of those lone rangers silhouetted against a barren landscape, frayed and inured but still full of the passionate need to find inspiration and move forward.  My farmer is the same.  The trying times of his work and his past are softened by his hopefulness and ability to find small joys in humble things.  I wish that strength was viral so that I might catch it.  

This desire to withdraw comes and goes consistently in my life, which is why blogging is such a challenge for me.  The more blogs I read, the more I try to emulate them, be more light and on the surface.  Like my last post which I want to erase and forget about.  In truth, I don’t think a blogger is at all who I am, but I certainly keep trying.  Hopefully I can find a balance of openness and intimacy along with restraint in what I write and share here. ​But that remains to be seen.  Perhaps I should model Frederick the mouse a bit more, and embrace needing the time to collect colors and warmth before I share them with others.