It is all too tempting to diagnose people, real and fictional, from afar based on incomplete and sketchy data. Marfan syndrome can explain Abraham Lincoln's hight and appearance. Sherlock Holmes may have been bipolar or autistic.
Every week someone offers up a new medical explanation for our current president.
|This may be Emily Dickinson (left).|
Poor Emily Dickinson has already been posthumously diagnosed with epilepsy, tuberculosis, and agoraphobia. I'm going to add to her ghostly burdens by suggesting she might have had an autoimmune disease.
That she and I are both vaguely unwell on a regular basis is probably not good enough evidence. Emily lived at a time of extreme propriety when talking graphically about health problems was not done.
But this poem sounds a lot like my life:
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years--
Bitter contested farthings--
And Coffers heaped with Tears!
I was peevish. Everything bothered me and everything hurt. Smells hurt. Sounds hurt. I would have been miserable at home that day too, but I would have been resting instead of walking another three miles
Too overwhelmed to deal with it anywhere but home, I kept driving so I could get to my shower and my bed.
Actually, we don't
really know if she had one, but she did write about desire and the double standard, all with pretty metaphors and omitted details, so there is no danger of me getting in trouble for explicit language yet.
My bright blue cotton vest is coming along quickly. I am about 1/5 finished and hope I am about 1/5 through the yarn. It is always a little nerve-racking watching yarn being used up and worrying if there will be enough.
I look at the pattern for every stitch of my vest, so this is only a project for when I can concentrate. For social knitting, I am making a purse for one of my nieces.
And even though it is far too hot today for heavy wool, I had to wear the new skirt at least once before bagging it up with the winter sweaters.
Notice that my old dog and I are staying in the shade. Spring this year is jumping right into summer.