April.

This morning finds the world covered in wet snow as heavy as the hand of fate. Trees bow under its mass, reaching down into the duck yard as if to tenderly lift up a duck. Bulbs, yesterday arrayed in brilliant splendor in the grass, today barely emerge from underneath the sodden blanket. Raspberries, not yet planted, had to be unearthed in their pots and placed next to my house. Strawberries in a small greenhouse were covered with a living room blanket and hopefully survived the ordeal.

Snow was forecast, but I hoped for a dusting. My song to welcome in April two days ago would have been of days balmy enough for May, shorts brought out of the closet, and a fierce desire to plant. It seems the world wants to remind me to wait a bit.

While outside snow falls heavy on my dreams of gardens, inside my body is a turmoil of pain–not a new thing for me–and nausea, which is. It cannot be that each flare is the worst flare I have had, but this feels almost like it.  Sick enough to lie in bed all day, I am too sick, in fact, to lie in bed all day. The bed is like a torture device, but then so is a chair or a couch or standing. I cannot hold food down and so I cannot decide if taking the medications that combat my condition is a wasted effort. I am running out of things to try, running out of hope, for the moment. The act of being awake simply hurts and sleep is elusive.

I somehow vested a great deal of my joy and aspiration this spring in the gardens that surround my home.  I know that I am stronger than I think. I know that I can always start anew. There are actions to take, requests to make, new plants if these ones are frozen, and I will do all these things. But just for the moment, I feel buried.