Enforced Self Indulgency

I am laying in bed on a slanted wedge with two pillows propping my head, another underneath my knees and another on my lap supporting the iPad on which I am writing. I have been in much pain the last several days with a fierce backache. I have just emerged from Ann Tyler's novel "Digging to America."  It is a story about two families, one Iranian and the other American, who meet at the airport when each of them are being given the Korean babies that they had adopted. I feel as if I've just left these people as I leave people in my real world; just as people in my real life continue to exist when I'm gone, so does Maryam and David and Bitsy continue living their lives beyond the novel. (If I e-mailed them, they might respond).

It has been raining all day.I hear the tapping of rain as it hits the window. Unlike the banging of rain in the downspouts in the house from which I recently moved, this sound is peaceful and reassuring. My writing - and before that my my reading - is interrupted periodically by my sweet little cat, Daisy, seeking my loving attention - or the feline equivalency of that. (While in bed, I have eaten pretzels, rice pudding and best of all, Otter Pops.)

As I lay in bed, I feel like a kid excused from school because of sickness. I also feel like I'm playing hookey. There are tasks that NEED to be done and I feel the imperative to act. On top of unpacked boxes of books in front of my desk, there is a multi-level (and constantly growing) jumble of sheets, towels and blankets - used in packing during my recent move. It has been sitting there for two plus months. Half of my garage is crammed with cleaning supplies and office supplies and stuff and stuff mixed up in various boxes. This is a result of a move stretching to almost three months from a house 1.8 miles away.  I moved in stages and hand carried many things. I packed disparate items in the boxes so that they were not too heavy for me to carry.  Packing Windex, boxes of paper clips and staples, and rolls of paper towels in the same box made sense then.  (I don't recommend this.)

Laying here in bed, I feel like I'm faking my need to be in it.  I should be actively creating order from the chaos that surrounds me.  In the kitchen, I move a few items and then a few more.  I open the door from the laundry room to the garage, make a path to some cleaning supplies and bring them into the kitchen.    Gradually and then insistently the fierce pain in my back reasserts itself. I return to the bedroom and sink into the luxury of enforced self indulgence.