Crikey. Here I am contemplating the wantless life and the disappearing worlds and out of nowhere comes Life-as-a-lethal-lurgy. It invades my body and lays it to waste; days of dry heaving and a giddiness that has yet to take off its Sufi-shoes.
There’s nothing remotely pleasant about being sick. It’s a process that has its own mysterious reasons, strategies, timings. I’m in awe of the intelligence that powers this bundle of bones. I can’t grow a toenail, build a cell or mend a tear in the sheath of my skin.
But this body has The Complete Maintenance Manual and Toolkit built-in. The only requirement from my side is to relax and … relax more, to get out of its way while it does what’s necessary. And what amazes me in this simple allowing is that suffering doesn’t get a look-in.
I’m not pretending to myself or anyone that I won’t seek help, or that it’s cool or enjoyable to be ill. It’s horrid. But what I notice now is that it can be horrid without being difficult. It can be both painful and peaceful. It can be whatever it is and be loved for whatever it is. It’s very odd, but don’t-mind mind seems to be the most powerful healing tool of all.
The most effective medicine:
Silence and stillness and a sinking into the spaciousness
in which it is all arising.
Take as required.