So, it’s New Year’s Eve, and I am lying here on the pullout couch watching a repeat of the NBA game in which Brandon Jennings scored 55 points.
Not exactly the way I’d envisioned welcoming 2010.
The day before, I’d suffered a bout of diverticulitis. For those who don’t know, it’s a digestive disease, and an attack feels like your intestines are going to explode. Not a lot of fun. It left me doubled-over for hours, crying, cursing at the heavens, practicing my Pranayama breathing, pitying myself again.
Then, making my way to the computer to tell my doctor about my symptoms, I found an email from my lawyer telling me my limited options to make good with the IRS had dwindled even further.
I lost it.
Why me? Why this? Why now? What the hell was this year about? Hadn’t I been through enough in 2009? Don’t I deserve a little mercy? Just a little?
Then it dawned on me: I was the one who needed to show some mercy—to me.
I would never let anyone talk to me the way I talk to myself. Same goes for taking care of myself. I am quick to offer support and understanding to most anyone else. Perhaps this was my body’s way of telling me that it needed to be shown some sympathy.
I resolved to do just that, and reached out for help. Friends delivered my prescription and groceries so I didn’t have to go out (thanks, Joel and Laura). Others offered their help. It seemed as soon as I offered myself compassion, it materialized.
As within, so without.
So, I have been able to just lay low all day. It’s nice.
Now I’m going to email my old friend who helped find this Jennings kid. I mean, 29 points in one quarter?
Mercy.