The methodical practice ofPatience as a perpetualPatient of unpaved pathsOnly (maybe) psuedo-exploredOff the main bodies of rare diseaseIs a skill I've sought elsewhereIn much pleasurable ways. Though I suppose it's throughThorns, muck, and solitudeThat patience gains a differentPersona; a parental, oldWise one in the woods withStrength not in spite of butBecause of broken branches.
Once again, rain is in the forecast for days and it reminded me of my ill-preparedness around this time last year. This time, I'll bring towels. In other words, I think I understand what I'm dealing with now. It's still cold and dreary but with the right tools, it might just be manageable. Of course, as I do, I'm writing in metaphor (for fun? out of habit? emotional inability to be fully transparent? Hesitancy of sharing too much on a public platform? I dunno) But I share and say to the extent in which I'm comfortable because chronic illness, rare disease, navigating the medical system as a woman who is also medicated for anxiety and OCD and being dismissed over and over and over and OVER again as "this is just your anxiety/stress/emotions" I so desperately want you -- you who might be struggling with some similar circumstance -- to know that someone out here gets it. And if you're desperately searching for answers and truths about yourself and why things might be happening the way they are, please don't stop. Don't give up. Take breaks and breathers when you need, but then keep exploring. If the road is blocked, find another path. Look for helpers along the way. And always, always, bring your towels when it's pouring. That original post here I love you. Jess
For the third day in a row, it’s pouring. My grumpy donkeys huddle together in the barn as the rain batters the tin roof so loud that it rattles my bones—it must be deafening to their large ears. After piling their feeders with extra hay in lieu of typical grazing time, I pull the hood of my rain coat over my head and slide the barn door shut behind me. Like a million pellet guns, the drops strike my whole body.
The ducks scatter around the yard, rain wicking from their slick feathers. Like children in a ball pit, they bounce and play gleefully in the growing muddy puddles. The chickens on the other hand, band together in one of their coop’s nesting boxes even grumpier than the donkeys—wide, feathery, pissed off floofs. I make sure they’ve got dry food, then check to make sure none of my little infant…
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“Enough pails of water—a river.”-Ancient Proverb Because it’s been ages, I ventured beyond the borders of my own few-mile space in an effort to reconnect with something resembling a world bigger than my own. I stayed outside 1) because COVID cases are surging and 2) because we have a rare blip of goldilocks perfection on... Continue Reading →
It’s pouring, I tell y’all. Pouring! A tempest. A typhoon. A piney-woods tidal wave with impressive lightning bolts and thunder which both crashes and growls. Something’s angered the gods and boy howdy they’re letting us know. The ducks are loving it but the donkeys, not so much. I’ve microwaved a cup of coffee from yesterday’s... Continue Reading →
It’s a typical late-Texas summer on an early, weekday afternoon where leaves hang completely still from the treetops. The chickens have dug small holes outside of their coop in which to rest (the dirt beneath the surface being much cooler than anywhere else they may find) while the ducks drift gently in their pond with... Continue Reading →