I caved yesterday and went to the doctor. Bacterial laryngitis. Probably it set it in as a result of my bout with the flu last weekend. Two days bed rest, no talking, swallow these pills and call me on Wednesday.

When I am sick, even (or perhaps especially) when I have passed into the forced-convalescence stage, I do not want people. I do not want their sympathetic words or their proffered help-- I merely want to be left alone. And just now, when I am denied even speech, even the ability to assert my desires and rights, I want that all the more. So this time it has all been especially difficult-- house guests through last night, and then the girls coming to do laundry here today.

I have such hopes for moving. Such high hopes for relocating. Maybe I haven't done things right here-- I'm not sure. I don't think that's the case, but I have no perspective yet. More likely, though, I've done things here exactly as planned, because it was ordained all along that I would make this move at this time. Ah, there's the Calvinist in me resurfacing. Things begin to realign.

It is December. Who would believe it? Time is a wisp of smoke, a puff of spore blown out on the wind. There no catching it, keeping it, holding it back. Willy-nilly, it slips ever onward, ever away.