Recently I caught a bug from my iMac or Mac caught a bug from me. My second cold in three weeks has me cranky and lazy, but at least today I'm at my desk, trying slowly to catch up with myself. I've read all the books I checked out from the library last Friday and I'm stuffed with other people's words. Mac will return home today with a new power cord thingy. For a while it looked like he might be terminal, but we are both going to recover. The thing is, I had already announced to some writing friends that I was taking a short sabbatical. Maybe Mac understood and decided to take one also. No, I don't think that's it. I think stuff just happens. No, I don't think that either. The technology doesn't really know what I need, but the universe does and very little happens that does not feel synchronous to me. I needed a stay-cation and having Mac in hospital made that easier to do. My little netbook is fine but a 90-lb weakling compared to Mac. Much easier to ignore.
During this hiatus from work, I've toyed with ideas for new interests to spark my energy, bird watching, archery, travel to a remote place where I know nothing and no one. But, sigh, I probably won't do any of those. What I am doing is listing all the nagging details that have piled up while I sneezed my way through six mystery novels and two boxes of Kleenex. I just finished a Nevada Barr book, Deep South, in which Anna Pigeon, National Park Service ranger and sleuth, finds herself beaten and alone in a deep cleft of the Natchez Trace. That's how I feel, like I'm in a muddy crevasse and too weak to pull myself out. Anna was rescued by chance passersby. Maybe if I smear myself with mud and blood and break my arm someone will rescue me. No? Too melodramatic? Right. Better to return the library books, sip some exotic coffee and resume my own life. But I will keep my eye out for what might be coming over the lip of the depresssion and hope that it's not an alligator or a murderous, greedy man with a shovel and a rope.