A gentle dawn. To the west the few puffs of cloud are pale against a pale background. To the east the clouds are a layer of soft dove-gray, lightly touched with pink. The sun is behind them, beneath them, not yet up over the Sandias, and the world still rests in a sleepy half-light. My gaze drops to the garden, where the ornamental grasses show blond against the pale gray pebbles on the path. The sage-greens and silvers of desert foliage gleam softly. A handful of Canada geese fly overhead, honking half-heartedly as they head from sleeping to feeding grounds, or from one wetland to another. I wonder which, and then realize idly that I don't really know what geese get up to in the mornings.

Between the physical demands of work and a writing workshop in August, I've pushed too far beyond the limits of illness lately. The flu symptoms have mostly abated, but my mind and body still feel stunned. It's like the moment after the wind has been knocked out of you, just before you're able to take that first shuddering breath. This morning I barely feel able to move. It's as if I've forgotten how--how to find those receptors, how to connect will to muscle. If bears were after me, I could probably figure it out, but they're not, and I'm good with that. Instead I melt gratefully into the cushions of the Adirondack chair on this soft, gentle morning while my tea cools to drinking point.

I think back to the evening before. It had been a rough one. Cooking dinner had taken forever. Despite the counter stool I sit on, the alarm on my heart rate monitor kept going off. I'd chop an onion. Beep! 112, my anaerobic threshold. I'd stop and rest until my pulse dropped. Chop a celery stalk. Beep! Stop and rest. And so on, through what came to seem like an endless array of vegetables. By the time I started washing dishes--after 10:30 by then--I had shut the alarm off in irritation. Somewhere between the silverware and the stockpot, though, I glanced at my wrist and was horrified: 135 and holding steady. No, climbing.

And so I stopped. And rested. And eventually finished the dishes. And rested again, so I could climb the stairs to bed.

Now, on this new morning, in the midst of a weary paralysis, I am keenly aware of the wonders of cushions, of soft things of all sorts: the literal cushions on the chair, kind to the tender places on my spine. The figurative cushions of clouds and soft, gleaming leaves and sleepy geese honking in a pale sky, kind to senses overburdened by urban life: the over-bright colors and screaming capitals of advertisement; the blaring music on bad speakers, inside and even outside stores; the violence of the wrong cologne. All the false equations we make between stimulus and fun. Since becoming ill the boundaries between my senses and the world seem weak, as if whatever cushions your nerves have against raw sensation have worn thin. Today the world itself is a cushion. Such beautiful softness, as the clouds drift and the grasses wave in a mild breeze. I love them fiercely.

For these few minutes the demands of my body are not at war with each other, the demands of illness not at cross-purposes with the demands of daily life. Heat or lights? Mortgage or groceries? Illness is its own economy, with its own poverties. Do I rest or eat? Shower or wash dishes? It's an either/or life. The choices have become harder lately. They worry me. I've begun to feel like a juggler when things get out of sync. The balls of Work, Daily Needs, and Illness are all still in the air, but the rhythm's a little off, the arcs not quite as smooth. My movements have become jerky and clumsy. They have a frantic edge as I try to keep everything in motion. I don't know any more how much longer I'll be able to keep working. It may just be a matter of time before at least that ball comes tumbling down.

Or--the juggler could figure it out. Find the rhythm again. It could all work out just fine. It has before. I just don't know which to prepare for.

Don't get me wrong. This tussle isn't a catastrophic one. There is (good) food on the table, a roof over my head, and clean water flowing from the tap. My tussle isn't even unusual. Many people I know are struggling to keep their balance against big, long-term forces: physical illnesses, mental illnesses, the special needs of their children, the care needed by aging parents. They, too, face circumstances beyond their control, with implacable demands. And yet--we are all finding our way forward, often joyfully, one groping step at a time. There is food for an amazing amount of hope in that. The whole definition of chronic means that we will not "overcome." But we can find our way forward. We do.

It is a trek, though. Chronic anything is a trek. A long one, up a rocky, mountain path. It can be wearing. "You let me catch my breath," says the psalmist, and on this soft morning of cushions and clouds I know of no higher praise. What pleasure, to round the corner of the mountain path and find a spring, a little shade, a resting place to drop your heavy pack and straighten your back, to take a sip of water, to stretch out your muscles. Those muscles have been flexed for a very long time. They will be all the stronger for a brief chance to relax. This morning the cushions on the Adirondack chair are a mossy bank among ferns, the bird bath a shady pool; the ceramic mug an old canteen, dented with many journeys. It is all unspeakably beautiful. My heart aches with the pleasure of rest.

Soon it is time to get going up the path again. To struggle slowly up the stairs. To battle through a shower. To face another long, wearing day. Because after all, I realize, I can.