Dispatch from the Land of Counterpane

It’s pouring rain again, big drops plashing on the patio and pounding on the roof, real rain coming straight down. It rained all day yesterday, too, and by my wimpy California standards, it was chilly outside. For most of the day I lingered in bed propped against a pile of white pillows with down covers on my lap, reading and snoozing, tapping at the laptop now and then, rising only occasionally to fetch a cup of hot chocolate or sliced Pink Lady apples and transporting them back to my cozy bedroom base. A certain poem by Robert Louis Stevenson came to mind. Remember this?

When I was sick and lay a-bed, 

I had two pillows at my head, 

And all my toys beside me lay, 

To keep me happy all the day. 

And sometimes for an hour or so 

I watched my leaden soldiers go, 

With different uniforms and drills, 

Among the bed-clothes, through the hills; 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets 

All up and down among the sheets; 

Or brought my trees and houses out, 

And planted cities all about. 

I was the giant great and still 

That sits upon the pillow-hill, 

And sees before him, dale and plain, 

The pleasant land of counterpane.

My own Counterpane was pleasant indeed, its hills and valleys empty of soldiers, but the shimmering view through the windows beyond was as green as an enchanted land, and boats sailed through the blinking dreams of my intermittent naps. Whenever I got that drowsy feeling -- the way I always used to feel at work at precisely two o’clock – I would slide down a bit lower beneath the covers, let my eyelids close, and indulge myself in a delectable spell of sleep. I would awake again and lose myself among the pages of my book, or ponder the tones of gray and silver in the sky, somehow leaden and luminous all in the same moment. I was lazy and useless, a harmless giant, unfettered by guilt, which is rare for me, reigning over my dozy peaceful realm with a laissez-faire approach that I extended even to myself.  

There were a couple of phone chats, friends checking in, one of whom was responding to an email I had sent the other day in which I voiced my disappointment in myself and outlined a list of strategies I needed to embark upon. She had a better suggestion: “Why don’t you just try accepting yourself?” (Good thought. Vaguely Buddhist; no?)

Accepting myself was not an issue in the Land of Counterpane. Repositioning my mass once or twice, rising for a pee, or venturing into the kitchen to bring back goods as though I were a merchant on my own Silk Road, all seemed accomplishment sufficient on this particular day. I had proclaimed Time Out and I took it. 

And I hadn’t expected this rain to continue, but here we are a day later and continue it does. In the adjacent kingdom of Living Room, Monte has put on some Miles Davis, Kind of Blue, which makes me feel suave and breezily hip in a way I never am in real life. Meanwhile, the coffee in me is running contrary to passivity and I want to go outside and start exploring, but the noisy rain thrashing the treetops in the orchard is quite intimidating -- its volume is escalating, and it all sounds uncomfortably wet. No, an expedition does not seem promising at the moment, but it is nearly eleven anyway, and time for a little smackerel of something, as Winnie the Pooh might say. The choices are dazzling: cold pizza, oatmeal cookies I baked the other day, rain-washed oranges that dropped from the tree. 

It’s Saturday morning, after all, and Saturdays always make me giddy, but it’s more than that: It's becoming clear to me I am still drawing upon Counterpane capital. My day in bed was a fountain of youth. I feel rested, replenished, and ready to go, even if all I do is this. 

So here’s a perk of the blog for my friends near and far, a tip from a giant who is relaxed and self-accepting and not a whit concerned about what might to the unenlightened resemble sloth: The remedy for whatever ails you might very well be a little vacation in Counterpane. 

Trust me. Even a day can work wonders.