There is a slow, almost meditative mindfulness that comes the day after a mirgaine.
A quieting. A simplifying. A cautious, measured pace.
I step lightly – quite literally – throughout my day.
I woke at midnight with the feeling that I might possibly die from the pain in my head. (I realized this morning how rarely my headaches live up to true migraine potential. And for that I am so glad.)
Last night, however, was the real deal. A wild storm had torn through our valley and I woke just as the storm broke and the clouds cleared.
Was it the storm? The pressure? Or something else?
Who knows. I never know.
But Pete was still up and heard me stumbling about and brough me ice and essential oils and remedies and a pail in case I threw up. He took good care of me and soon I somehow fell back to sleep. I woke this morning feeling tender and sore, but mostly better.
And still. It lingers on. Sometimes the feeling, sometimes the fear of its return.
So I always take it slow.
The day after is not a day for busy.
After Pete left for work this morning the kids and I read a few extra chapters of our book in quiet voices, then made tea.
When they felt frisky they would run out into the yard, into another round of rain to get rowdy.
They get it. I wish they didn't have to, but they do. And I appreciate it so.
Then we walked to the creek to see what messages lasts night's wild storm may have left.
They splashed and tossed mud while I sat on the bank in silence, just watching, then wandered into the moist woods to listen for birds.
So today is slow.
No phone, and but a moment on the computer. Dishes waiting. Laundry waiting. Garden waiting.
And I realize – it's not so bad, really.
The journey was ugly, but I've landed in a place of quiet presence that only comes after a taste of misery.