For the past few days, my body has been reminding me that there are limits to what I can do and that I need to respect them. The reminders take the form of chest pain, tiredness, and insomnia (yes, you can have both at once).
I am trying hard to listen. I do the essential things - milk the cow, get the barn ready at night, cook, and keep up with the shop and so on - and I try not to be overly optimistic about how long my to do list can be on any given day. I have a long list of things I intended to do. But you know, the list of what got done is longer than it used to be and I am celebrating that.
And I'm refusing to be angry with myself for only being able to do this much. It's more than it was. It's less than I'd like. It is what it is.
I often think of my friend (who survived a completely unexpected heart attack) saying, "every morning I wake up and think 'I could be dead, and I'm not, and that makes it a good day,'".
It's a good day. I did a bunch if things. Now I'm gonna rest, and that is also a doing.
Maybe I'll knit. That's restful.