Every morning I awaken into a body that turns on it’s systems – an inevitable pain signals – in a slow and drowsy way. I come to full consciousness about the same time my headache comes fully online, the pound-pound-pound in the back of my skull as familiar to me as breathing.

Then I notice the light streaming in the window, whether it’s soft or bright, shadowed by storm clouds or shifting from wind through spring leaves.

Most mornings there is a soft, wet dog nose pushed impatiently against my face, snuffles and softness rousing me from sleep. Sometimes there is a hot cup of coffee and the warm, firm hand of my husband on my shoulder as the mattress dips with his weight beside me.

I eventually make it downstairs and out to the cold plunge where a few rude seconds of shockingly cold sensation relax into 10 or so minutes of soaking while I watch the birds fly to and from the branches and the feeders or listen to the squirrels tell off the chickadees.

I watch the dappled sunlight and feel the breeze and let the cold, icy water sink into my bones as I contemplate another day in a body that spends as much time trying to kill me as it does trying to live.

I rise, and often as not rinse in the hose, showering off with garden friendly shampoo and conditioner in my swimsuit so my brand new pussy-willow tree can have more water.

I notice the small changes in the temperature, the birds, the season. I hear my neighbors call out to my pets in their porch window as I rest. I hear the sounds of the neighborhood, dogs, music, sirens, people.

It passes over me, through me, around me.

On good days I find occupation; cleaning, shopping, cooking, organizing, arranging, pet-washing, walking, physical therapy, art, candle making, sewing. On bad days I find distraction; reading, t.v., movies, art, sewing.

I tire, always sooner than I want to. My energy lags, my aches intensify. My body gives me the signals I ignore at my peril and I set down whatever I am doing and begin to end the day.

Breathe out.