Life of a writer being sick is an interesting experience. I had all of my writing assignments completed as of Tuesday, even finishing a new book and sending it off to the editor, but then it hit. It was a cold. Not the flu, mind you, but a big-time head cold. After trying to make it to the gym, trying to get some work done at the restaurant, and walking around town several times, I finally climbed into bed at 5:30 p.m. Thursday. There I stayed until a couple of hours ago. Talk about being in a fog. Christine is gone for a few days visiting the grandkids, so I have some spare time, but do you think I could write? No. I was that sick. Some of my best poems and short stories were conceived and drafted during emotional low points in my life including being sick; however, this week had already witnessed major accomplishments thus no drive to produce words. Now, I’m a little more alive and as I listen to George Winston, I at least want to document my week. As a writer, I used to write every day. Whether it be in a journal or a short poem, something emanated from my synapses on a routine basis. I suspect, no, I definitely realize now that I can actually take a day and rest. My brain never shuts down which is why writing is so healthy for me. But this cold shot me a warning that the pressures may have been too great. Perhaps immune systems knock you for a loop to get your attention. Whatever the case, the experience of doing nothing teaches me I will survive if not productive for one lousy day. Maybe even two days. Rest is vital and accepting that the world won’t pass you by in twenty-four hours is life-giving. I think I’ll grab a blanket and test that theory some more. Feels good.