Sickness & Health

My kids will tell you I never get sick.

Largely this is true. Because I cannot afford it, and I just do not like it, even if germs, sneezes, coughs, and flues are pounding me, I find the quickest way to get back on my feet is to stay on my feet. Pretend that I just feel fine, and generally pretty quickly I do.

Six weeks ago, I booked plane reservations to Oregon and wrote a piece about the importance of reconnecting with an old home and old friends. The trip was weighted with potentially life-altering significance emotionally as it represented action and movement not available to me during the years of marriage.

Yet on the eve of departure, circumstances combined to present more challenges to actually boarding and taking off. Like pretending not to be sick, I knew I could have ignored all symptoms and headed for the airport anyway, but the crushing weight of an actual head cold made all the other reasons too difficult to ignore. I postponed my pilgrimage to some uncertain future date. At least, I wrote about that too.

In reading many of my posts (and some of others), there is much ado about Being a Writer, and something less of actual substance to the words. I can declare myself to be something, but only in the actual doing does it become truth.

Yes, people reassure me regularly with generous comments that, indeed, I am a writer—all very flattering and wonderful balm to my divorced damaged ego. Still, no matter how pretty the wrapping in words, there needs to be depth and enlightenment, movement beyond repetitive declarations.

Months ago, I also committed myself to attend a workshop this weekend. A continuation of my masculine work, I will gather with 67 men who speak in a common language of brotherhood, spirituality, shadows, integrity, authenticity, and peace, with a stated goal of changing the world one man at a time.

Some of the men I met a year ago, others I have only known through sharing thoughtful EMAIL correspondences. Like friendships made through blogging, I anticipate that actually meeting these men will be quite revealing. The work we will do in the official events should be emotionally challenging now that I better understand that language. The dialogues we share on the pathways, at the table, and just beyond the light of the campfire may be even more enlivening.

Yet, once again, symptoms of a low-grade flu combine with circumstances of timing and money to make me hesitate, threatens my resolve and determination to move forward. So busy declaring myself being a writer, I balk when presented with the opportunity to explore the passions and emotions that writing is all about.

“Sickness” conspires once again to hold me back, but this time I will continue to pretend all is well in my world.

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