Out of the blue, and it’s always in the middle of the night, the inflammation process decided to switch on. I was telling it firmly around 3:00 this morning that my writing about Noel and his co-worker was NOT an invitation to come back and NOT to think so highly of itself.
There is a level of pain where all you can do is determinedly live through it. I did. Pain as an intellectual exercise in curiosity about what it means to be alive. And, go figure, I’m doing okay now–nothing to see, nothing to see, move along, move along, and I wonder if I should I even be mentioning this. I’ve been sitting on this draft. And then I just got a note from someone worried over a relative with lupus: yes, I told them–life does go on and it does get better and it is worth the wait to get there.
I don’t like these wake-up calls, but they always make me focus on what’s most best to do next with my time. And I honestly hadn’t thought of this when I set up the first picture, but I just had myself a fine glass of fresh-squeezed cliche.  Pure evaporated cane juice added as necessary.