She awoke at 8:30. Her arm was sore. Hopefully the little army of antibodies were doing their job.
After the pills, and breakfast, dishes and sweeping, showering and dressing it was 9:40. On the spur of the moment (squirrel!) she decided to go to the Compassion and Empathy group she sometimes attended.
She could walk there in eighteen minutes, and the sun was shining and the leaves were crisp. She let the cat out, and putting on her wrap-around sweater. The walk would do her good.
At 9:59 she arrived at the door, and took a deep breath. Entry was always difficult. There would be effusive hellos, awkward hugs, those moments of settling in.
She tentatively opened the door, put on her happy face and slipped in. It was a small group of women she admired and cared about. There were some new faces but she had a sense of kinship with them; this group of middle aged women all struggling to find their way, keep their course, sort out their lives.
She settled onto the couch with a cup of chai tea clutched in her hands. She pulled the colourful throw over her shoulders and waited.
The group always started with a meditation. It was guided and gave the participants a chance to check in with their bodies, how they were feeling, arriving.
While the facilitator spoke she felt the butterflies in her stomach, the tightness in her chest, the constriction of her throat.
She shouldn’t have come. She was glad she was there. It was just so confusing.