This Weekend

I am comforting myself with making a batch of granola as I round out the second week of this lingering viral illness. It's nothing serious, just stretches of physical malaise - which feel interminable at times - that conveniently set in towards the evenings as I finish seeing my last patient of the day. I then gather the remnants of my afternoon tea to put away and rally myself for the short drive home.

The weekend finally comes and I putter around the kitchen, throwing together oats and sundry spices. I wait expectantly for the aromas to waft forth from the oven. They inhabit our kitchen at least once a week and may be the reasons why I like making granola often. I look outside at the perfect azure-blue sky and pause to listen to the steady hum of the crickets. It's one of those sounds that you usually notice only when it ceases, creating a palpable void. Other sounds filter through the kitchen window: a dog barking, the rise and fall of a child's voice, the distant motor of a car. I listen wistfully and think of the bustle outdoors, of my bike resting forlornly in the garage, waiting for me. It's as if the rest of the world brims with health, engaging in every active pursuit imaginable while I, pale-facedly, sit in my cloister. That languor, so voluptuous in the first few days of an illness, has become tedious. It is with difficulty that I bring an appreciative mindfulness to daily activities in the midst of physical discomfort. I counter against an impatience to get well and a lapse in short-term memory giving me the impression of possessing good health in the distant past.

So, I still make my tea daily, slowly and mindfully, taking comfort in the familiarity, the constancy of this beloved ritual. And I drink matcha, more than usual. E joins me in the morning and makes it for us as I cede my tea-brewing duties temporarily. He sets the bowls of steaming matcha before us, foamy and mossy green. The bowl feels comfortably warm in my hands, its contours generously accomodating my fingers. I sip from the bowl and taste that hint of brininess that never fails to surprise me when I drink matcha. I think of seaweed tossed on the shores, amassed in tendrils, giving off that heady aroma of theirs. I feel a bit revived, the warm bowl in my hands, the cats rustling nearby, while seated at the the kitchen table with E.