Leaves in the Pool

I enjoyed listening to the wind last night.

It rattled around the house like it had something personal to work out, shaking the screens, whispering secrets down the chimney, tossing little sighs against the windows. It had that fierce energy, the kind that means: something is moving, something is clearing.

And by morning, it had done me a great favor — swept away that stubborn cold fog that had been clinging to the yard like a moody house guest. The air was crisp. The sky was bright. And the world, at least in my backyard, looked like it had finally exhaled.

I think I’ll spend some time out there this morning.

The sun is calling my name, not quietly either — more like an old friend across a crowded airport who spots you first. I need that sun fix. After three weeks of being “under the weather,” I’m stepping outside like a pilgrim approaching a holy shrine.

And please, let’s correct something right away:

I was not “sick as a dog.”

Dogs are joy. Dogs are nose kisses and tail wags and unconditional love. Dogs are sunshine wearing fur.

Whatever I had?

Not that.

My illness was more like hosting a gremlin with a short fuse. A troll that had taken up residence beneath the bridge of my sinuses. A cranky little ghost pacing inside my lungs, slamming doors and flipping the breaker just for fun.

It clawed at my throat until every swallow felt like I was trying to ingest sandpaper dipped in lemon juice. I coughed so hard I convinced myself at least one internal organ had shifted positions. I hacked with the dramatic flair of a Victorian orphan who wanted attention.

But even then — even in the middle of my personal Dickensian fever dream —

I kept a spark alive.

Call it stubbornness.

Call it inner joy refusing to die.

Call it my spirit clutching a tambourine and saying,

“Not today, gremlin.”

Warm tea and honey became my steady companions.

Tea, with its rising curls of steam, leaning in like, “Baby, breathe me in.”

Honey, sliding into the cup slow and decadent, like golden silk weaving itself into warmth. Each sip soothed my throat in the way a soft hand rubs your back during a long cry.

Somehow, even in the worst of it, tiny pockets of joy remained.

Dimmed, yes. But never gone.

So today?

Today feels like a homecoming.

When I stepped outside, I saw immediately that the wind had pulled a mischievous little miracle: every leaf that had fallen overnight — dozens and dozens — had gathered on the same exact side of the pool. Neatly. Almost politely. As if during the night they’d whispered amongst themselves:

“She’s been through enough. Let’s not make her bend.”

And honestly?

My back sent up a prayer of gratitude. A physical hallelujah.

For the first time in weeks, I laughed — a real one — the kind where you feel your ribs stretch with relief.

And then the day got even better.

As I took my rightful place in a patch of morning sunlight, soaking up warmth like a solar-powered lizard (we’ll come back to lizards), something rustled by the rosemary bush.

A tiny reptile — no longer than my pinky — darted out into the open. He froze. Stared at me with intense curiosity. And then, in what can only be described as a moment of spiritual celebration, he danced.

He puffed up, bobbed up and down like he was shouting,

“SHE LIVES! THE QUEEN HAS RETURNED!”

Then spun in a tight little circle, paused dramatically, and gave me a solemn two-bob bow.

I nearly fell over laughing.

“Well thank you,” I said, attempting my own bow. “Your acknowledgment is noted.”

Satisfied, he dashed off beneath the lavender like he had other ceremonial duties to attend to.

Ah yes — lavender.

Lavender is dangerous.

Lavender is seductive.

Lavender is the botanical equivalent of someone who knows exactly how good they look.

The scent hit me first — bright, calming, but layered with something almost sinful.

And the color? A soft royal purple that confidence itself would choose to wear.

But the flowers…

Those slender petals running up the stalk in a stylish, unhurried line…

Let’s be honest: lavender is a little sexy.

This morning, the breeze brushed through them, and the stalks began to sway — slow, rhythmic, as if teasing me with their elegance. The motion had a confidence I admired. Maybe even envied.

I blinked at them.

The lavender swayed harder.

I swear one stalk winked at me.

Being “under the weather,” it turns out, does strange things.

It rattles you loose.

Heightens your senses.

Turns your inner volume up just enough that you suddenly smell more, see more, feel more.

The sunlight on my shoulders felt like warm hands.

The breeze skimmed across my skin like curious fingertips.

Even the colors around me were louder — richer — like someone had dipped the world in fresh paint.

Illness takes you down to the studs.

But sometimes it reveals the wiring you forgot you had.

And let me also say this:

Bundling between fluffy blankets and overstuffed pillows can truly be magic.

I discovered a kind of bliss in those weeks — the sensation of being held, swaddled, softened, cocooned. Every pillow molded itself around me like it remembered who I was in a past life. The blankets wrapped me in warmth with the gentle authority of a grandmother who doesn’t tolerate nonsense.

But — and here’s the twist —

It’s all a matter of perspective.

If my spirit had been craving thrills?

If she’d wanted chaos, speed, the rush of a roller coaster?

Well then those same cozy slippers and cloud-like pillows would’ve felt less like comfort…

and more like being glued inside a giant Stay-Puft marshmallow belt prison.

You know EXACTLY the feeling:

when comfort becomes confinement.

when softness becomes suffocating.

when a blanket suddenly feels like it weighs 200 emotional pounds.

Healing isn’t always sweetness.

Sometimes it’s resistance.

Sometimes it’s surrender.

But these past three weeks?

Something in me chose surrender.

Chose stillness.

Chose the warmth of blankets over the wildness of roller coasters.

Chose tea and honey over adrenaline and motion.

Maybe because my body demanded it.

Maybe because my spirit remembered something I hadn’t yet caught up to.

Or maybe because the universe leaned over my sickbed and said kindly but firmly,

“Sit. Down. Sweetheart.

We are recalibrating you.”

And I’ll be honest —

looking at the leaves gathered neatly at the pool,

the dancing lizard,

the flirtatious lavender,

the sun warming my shoulders like a blessing,

and the crisp air filling my lungs like first breath…

I think the recalibration worked.

I closed my eyes.

Let the breeze brush across me one more time.

Let the sunlight kiss my cheeks.

Let the world say hello in its quiet, gentle ways.

And under my breath — from deep gratitude, not habit —

I whispered:

“Thank you.”

Not to anyone.

To everything.

To the wind for clearing the fog.

To the leaves for gathering kindly.

To my blankets for holding me.

To my spirit for waiting.

To my body for fighting.

To the lavender for seducing me back into myself.

And to the tiny lizard who danced like a messenger of joy.

I may have been under the weather…

but I was never really lost.

Just waiting for the sky to clear.

And today —

it finally did.