For the last three days I've been sick, laying on the couch, overdosing on the Olympics.
There's a luxurious aspect to being ill. Of course I can only say that because I have the protection of a union structure I work within, and sicktime benefits with my employer, the City of Toronto. I can tend to my malady without worry that my job will be pulled, that I'll have to scrounge with less money for food, rent and other neccessities. And of course, I have the protection of a really outstanding health care system that covers me simply because I am a resident of this fine country. I also happen to be a citizen, but I had health care coverage long before I took that step.
The great thing about being sick, when you have all these protections, is that it allows you to be ill without also being guilty, or ashamed, or in a position of creating a burden for others. And so I get to reacquaint myself with the couch cushions and the remote; I get to take naps all through the day, and play stupidly on the internet.
And this is also a time to refresh, which is something I really need. One of the ways I choose to look at illness is as a communication from life itself about ways I am out of balance. It alerts me, and directs me toward what will restore balance. That may be rest or movement, or both. It may have something to do with what I'm eating and drinking. It may be a motiovator to get back to regular meditation, or writing, or communicating with family and friends. Whatever the imbalance, the need, the illness leads me toward it.
One of the best aspects of illness is the freedom it gives to attend to what you really need. It's maybe the one time that the pressure is off. And so, odd as it is, there's legitimacy to the fact that being sick can feel good