Elizabeth J. St. John asked, and I spilled the tea (or is it coffee?) over on her website. Thank you, Elizabeth, for having me over! I enjoyed the interview, especially the lightning round.
Let’s do a check-in: how’s everyone holding up? For me, last night was tough. All of a sudden I became cold and started shaking uncontrollably. I managed to take myself to bed and hubby piled as many covers as he could find onto me, but it lasted about half an hour: finally I went to sleep and it stopped. I awoke a couple of hours later and was too warm, but otherwise felt okay. This morning no fever, no shakes. Although my muscles hurt so badly last night from the shaking that I was groaning, I’m remarkably not stiff this morning.
Alas, we had an opportunity to test out our “quarantine” plan: we had agreed that if one of us becomes sick, the other will sleep downstairs, we will use separate bathrooms, etc. SOMEONE was worried enough about me that he refused to leave the room, no matter how much I insisted. While I love how much he cares…
What was that illness last night about? I have no idea. I have been vigilant about remaining socially distant, only having gone on one grocery run in a week. I honestly don’t think I’ve been exposed to the bad stuff, but I’m still remaining cautious. My husband had an idea as to what might be wrong with me. Although I have never had sympathy pains, if you will, he wonders if I might have become overwrought with the world’s troubles. If maybe I was feeling so helpless that I became physically overwhelmed. I mean, I don’t remember feeling like it was too much, and yet I can’t explain what happened. He and I ate virtually the same food yesterday, so it wasn’t food poisoning. Maybe he’s right.
In any case, it brings to mind this William Wordsworth poem, definitely the title. Since it’s National Poetry Month, it seems fitting to post a poem, anyway.
The World Is Too Much With Us
The Railway, Edouard Manet. Here Victorine holds a puppy.
